What Fools These Mortals Be
by OthelloGold
Summary: Sarah's lived a normal life since her escapade through the Labyrinth, and her daughter is none the wiser to her mother's adventures. Jareth thinks this should be rectified. [Slow-burn. Sarah/OC, Jareth/Sarah; more to come?]
1. Nymphette

At sixteen, getting shipped to a summer camp was _not_ Guinevere Levitt's first choice on how to spend her two school-free months. She all but threw her school bag against the lilac-painted wall of her bedroom, feeling the rage bubble up into her chest. "Couldn't even give me a week, could you?" She shouted through the closed door, knowing her parents could hear from across the hall. "You just had to get rid of me as soon as possible!"

She heard footsteps approach the door, followed by a hard rattle of her doorknob. "Don't you throw your bag around, young lady!" Her father's voice had reached the gravelly octave it often took when angered. "Unlock this door right now! You know it's not supposed to be locked! Jenny!"

"What does it matter?" Her voice hit another high pitch. She was convinced this was her father's idea, honestly, so let him get the brunt of all her rage. Especially if he was going to call her by that hideous nickname. "You're going to have it wide open for two whole months, because you're robbing—" She grabbed her pillow and whacked it against the door, rattling the wooden frame. "Me—!" Another whack. "Of my _summer_!" A final punch to the feather-filled sack before it fell to the floor.

"Sarah!" Her father's voice echoed. "Sarah, talk to your daughter!"

"Oh, sure!" Guinevere threw herself onto her bed. The springs gave an ungainly squeak as she squirmed and kicked her way underneath two layers of flower-patterned sheets. "Call Mom into this! Like you always do!"

There were a few moments of silence, followed by a tentative knock. "Princess?" Her mother's voice was soft contrast to her father's. Airy, but not breathy, soft and refined. "Can I come in, please?"

"It's not even locked," The teenager spat. "He was just being dramatic."

The door twisted open. Guinevere looked up just in time to see her mother settle down on the bed next to her, taking one of her daughter's few remaining stuffed animals into her hands. Sarah Levitt was still beautiful at forty—Guinevere was jealous of her mother's long, dark hair, pin-straight and glimmering in the early morning light.

Sarah offered her daughter a gentle smile as she turned the stuffed cat over in her hands. "So," She began. "Do you want to tell me why your father demanded my presence in the middle of my work?" She set the cat down against the pink pillows to gently slide her hand under Guinevere's cheek, turning her eyes forward.

The teenager sniffled. "Mom, it's _not fair_ ," She ignored the way her mother gave a little flinch at the hated term. "I don't want to go away to a summer camp. Talia invited me to spend a week at her place for a camping trip! Joshua and I were planning movie marathons!" She squirmed up and allowed her mother to brush strands of her wavy hair from her eyes, pale fingers curling in the black strands.

Sarah took a moment to answer. Her green eyes had a soft look to them as she spoke, still brushing Guinevere's hair back into place. "Evie, I thought you wanted to go to this camp. I mean… Backstage Resort. It's not something to sniff at," Sarah smiled. Her mother always had a calming quality about her—something that Guinevere did not inherit. "You were all for it a few years ago."

"Yeah," Guinevere lamented, feeling shame burn in her cheeks. "A few years ago! Mom, all the rich kids go to Backstage Resort. There are kids that have been going there since they were, like, four!" The girl pulled her knees up to her chest, looking down at her thing legs. "I haven't got a chance to compare."

Sarah turned her daughter to face her again, lips pursed in a frown. "Now," She gave a shake of her finger. "Don't you dare say that. You've been in how many plays since elementary school? How many times did you volunteer at the performing arts center?" The woman's eyes narrowed, transforming her face into a mask of determination. "You have as much talent in your pinky as some of those kids have in their whole bodies. Besides, you won't necessarily standout," She offered a smile. "You just have to say Sarah Williams is your mother."

Guinevere couldn't stop the weak smile that quirked her lips up.

Before marrying her father, Sarah Levitt had been Sarah Williams; accomplished fantasy author and illustrator. Like her playwright mother before her, Sarah had several awards pinned to her winning books—her first, a novelization of her mother's part in the play _The Labyrinth_ , had been the thing to pave her way to success. As well as pave the way for Guinevere to have a cushy life and a one-up on most kids her age.

That thought sobered the teenager. She was being selfish and bratty, she knew. But the thought of having made plans with her new-found high school friends, only to have them ripped away by her uncaring father—

She turned her eyes back to her mother. "Why did you guys suddenly decide to enroll me in the camp now, of all times? Dad pitched a fit over me going when I first asked when I was _ten_."

Sarah bit her lip in return, the red skin flushing darker between her teeth. "It's not coincidence," She revealed. Guinevere scowled. "Your father is working on a new project, and he's been thinking about heading out of town. And, well, with how often I'm traveling for my new novel…"

"And you don't trust me home alone," Guinevere curled her arms around her knees.

Sarah wrapped her daughter in a hug, cooing softly into dark waves. "No, princess. I trust you. It's just such a scary thought. We live in a nice neighborhood, but if something were to happen to you, because of your father and I not being here," Her mother inhaled softly. "I'd never forgive myself, if you were taken away."

Her mother had always been paranoid about that. She had an irrational fear that, someday, Guinevere would just—up and vanish. Poof. Gone, without a trace.

"Fine," Her voice was muffled by Sarah's shirt. "I'll go to the stinkin' rich kid camp. But you gotta promise me one thing, Mom."

The brunette pulled away to meet her daughter's dark eyes. "You have to tell the counselors to call me _Evie_ ," She stressed the name. "Instead of Jenny."

"Well. Jennifer is the romanization of Guinevere," Sarah attempted.

"Doesn't matter," Guinevere sneered. "At least Evie's closer."


	2. Clurichan

They lived in uptown Westchester—it took them almost two hours to drive across the state to get to where the Backstage Resort resided. It was along a strip of country road, just outside of Warwick, and surrounded by nothing but rolling green hills and forests.

"Isn't this nice?" Sarah asked from the passenger's side. Her hand moved back to gently cup Guinevere's exposed knee. "You'll probably get daytrips out to the town. Look at all these little old buildings, and the winery… It's like something out of a fairytale," There was an awkward pause, and Guinevere watched the look on her mother's face crumple and smooth out in a millisecond. "Or, not. Fairytale forests never end well."

"Your mother's more excited for this than you are," Guinevere's father harrumphed from the driver's side. Father and daughter locked matching eyes, with the former being the first to avert his eyes back to the road. Darren Levitt, Guinevere decided, was going to be a total ass this summer.

"Don't butt heads," Sarah warned her husband and child both. "I want you two to leave on a good footing. They won't let you have your cellphone for the first week, Evie—"

"What?!" The girl yelped.

"So, I want you to write to us whenever possible."

"What do you _mean_ they don't allow cellphones?"

"You can have them," Sarah clarified. "Just not the first week. The camp counselors will give it to you afterwards, but you can't use them during camp hours."

Guinevere threw her hands out, eyes wide in shock. "Every hour is going to be camp hour!" She spluttered.

Darren snorted from the driver's seat. "Good," His voice was clipped. "Maybe you'll actually pay attention to some of the things you learn here."

If she had been a few years younger, Guinevere would have smashed her boot against the back of her father's chair. Instead, she settled for skulking back against her chair and tried to ignore the tell-tale burning behind her eyes that foretold of frustrated tears.

"You'll love it," Sarah tried to placate. "The camp's being held in a refurbished old summer resort. There was a strip of them here, back in the 70s, that all ended up going under."

Guinevere glanced out the window. True enough, she could begin to see multiple buildings fly by the car window. Most of them had obviously been painted gaudy, bright colors that had faded with almost twenty years' worth of age, with peeling paint and damaged roofs. Some of them appeared to be in better condition—cleaner windows, better paint…

The girl leaned over her mother's seat to grab gently at her green sweater. "Hey," She pestered. "Why did they all go out of business? New York's a really good vacation spot, especially out in the country."

Sarah smiled and twisted her daughter's fingers away from the brightly colored knit. "You're not wrong. But there were just too many of them cropping up at one time. They all started losing money and closing down—especially once the bigger hotels started lowering prices for single rooms in the city."

"Most people don't come to New York for the country side," Her father chimed in. His tone was still a bit hard, but not confrontational. "These places were meant for the upper-crust business tycoons and their families, to be able to get away from the city for a summer. Eventually, they started leaving the state—sometimes the country—so a lot of these places just crashed without high-paying customers."

Sarah turned a bit, offering out a brochure she'd had clenched in her hand. Guinevere glanced it over. Bright yellow and glossy, it was a pamphlet for the camp. "The camp actually bought and took over one of the old hotels," Her mother explained. "Hotel Carmela. It'll be like a spa vacation, Evie. It'll be so nice."

Guinevere slumped back against her seat and crossed her arms. She took a quick glance at her bag—army green, decorated with sharpie scrawlings and various buttons and pins. She had her sketchbooks and journals… But the more her parents spoke, the more it sounded like she wasn't going to have any time for her own personal endeavors. During daylight hours, at least.

She ran her fingers over the brochure as the trees and green landscape whizzed by. It was a pretty area. In any other circumstance, she'd love everything about it. The rolling hills and dark forest reminded her of something from one of her mother's many fairytales. Too bad the sour taste in her mouth about _camp_ rid the world of some of its beauty.

 _It won't be so bad_ , she tried to encourage herself as the family's Bentley slowly rolled down a hill. _You can make friends. You can act. You'll manage. It'll look good on a college resume, won't it?_

The car stopped. Sarah turned, her pink lips quirked in a smile. "You ready, princess?" She took Guinevere's hand again, fingers warm under the girl's palm. "You'll have fun, I know it."

"Yeah, well," The girl pulled her hand back to grab at her duffel. "I've always been a good actor."

The look on Sarah's face fell for a moment. Darren gave a pleased sigh from the driver's side. "Finally, some sense from the girl."

Mother and daughter shared a single, long look before Guinevere opened the door and stepped out onto a paved driveway.

Hotel Carmela was painted a jaunty, cheery yellow—Guinevere instantly hated it. Three stories high, sprawling across a carefully manicured lawn, all concrete posts and large glass windows… Something about it instantly had her skin prickling.

To her comfort, her mother seemed to feel the same way. Sarah came up behind Guinevere, tugged her against her side in one tight embrace, and twisted her fingers in her daughter's ragged vest. "Well," Her voice had gone thin. "It's certainly big, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Guinevere nodded. "And… Yellow."

"Very yellow."

"It looks damn nice," Darren came to a stop next to his wife, hooking one arm around her waist. "I almost wish we were taking a vacation here. You could teach these kids a thing or two, Sarah," Her parents shared their own look—one that Guinevere had no intention of picking apart.

She turned back to the car's trunk to dig out her suitcase while her parents chatted over the grounds. That strange, prickly feeling wouldn't go away. She grunted as the heavy plastic wheels hit the ground, pulling the stand up as she readjusted her duffel across her chest. "Feels like a bad horror movie," She cursed. "Except it's New York in daytime, and it's eighty degrees out."

When Guinevere rolled her bag back to her parents, they were already having a conversation with another couple. A portly older man and a wispy woman, both with kind faces and round eyes, were excitedly gushing over the camp to her parents. "Oh, she'll love it here," The man bobbed his head. His bright orange beard took over the entirety of his chin, animating his features as he spoke. "Dahlia was nervous, too, but she just took to it like a fish in water."

"Speaking of fishes," Darren noticed Guinevere first and gestured her to his side. Reluctantly, the girl moved, allowing her father to tug her against his side like her mother had done previous. "This is our girl, Jenny."

"Guinevere," She instantly corrected.

Her father gave her a long-suffering look. "It'd be easier for people to call you Jenny, or Jennifer, princess."

The way he was saying that rubbed her wrong. The older couple didn't seem to notice—the wife smiled and pushed black curls behind her shoulder. "Oh, what a lovely name! Guinevere. That's not one you hear every day, is it, Landon?"

Her husband gave a chortle in agreement. They were so peppy and happy. How could anyone be that… Delighted? Her eyes slid from the couple as a stocky girl sidled up behind them, hiding behind the woman's long dress.

Guinevere couldn't see if she was staring, thanks to the long strawberry-blonde hair covering her face. The woman turned, as if noticing the girl for the first time, and put a hand on her shoulder. "This is our Dahlia. It's her fourth year coming back," She turned her gaze to Guinevere. "Dahlia, this is Guinevere," She sounded the name out one syllable at the time.

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, the teenager cursed her mother for giving her such an outdated name.

"She's a newbie. You'll be nice to her and show her around, won't you?"

Dahlia pushed her hair back behind her ears. Her face was freckly and just as kind as her parents, though her smile was more subdued. "Sure. Hi."

"Hi," Guinevere returned.

"Here, why don't you two go on and get started to the main stage," Dahlia's father turned to Sarah and Darren. "They have a big welcome ceremony every year for the kids and the parents. If you two want to meet the counselors, it'd be a perfect time to do that."

"I see a few now we could snag," Dahlia's mother beamed. "While the girls go get situated. They might have snacks out, already!"

Dahlia's eyes flared to life at the mention of food. Guinevere saw no reason to fight it now that she was here… And her stomach gave a soft rumble of confirmation.

She turned her gaze to Dahlia. "Snacks are good," She offered. Gently, she passed her duffel bag to her father's outstretched hand, not needing the spoken insistence to go and make a friend.

"Very good," The teenager agreed. Without so much as asking, she grabbed Guinevere's hand, starting a brisk march towards the large awning that covered the double doors to the inside of the hotel.

Guinevere barely had a chance to wave over her shoulder to her parents.

Darren looked pleased. Sarah, however… Her eyebrows were furrowed, and though her lips were pulled in a half-smile, she could never hide that look in her eyes. She was _scared_.

Of what?

"The counselors are all kind of stuck up," Dahlia's soft voice brought Guinevere back to attention. "But the food here's great. There's a canteen that's open all day. They've got chocolate bars, and ice cream…"

The inside of the hotel was posh, wooden floors and vaulted ceilings galore. An old, electric chandelier hung above in the main foyer, where the welcoming ceremony was just beginning to fill up. The room was large, circular in shape and with a great wooden stage rising from the middle of the room.

"This used to be a pool room," Dahlia explained as she guided Guinevere through a thin crowd of children and teenagers. "But when the original owners of Backstage bought it, they filled it in and put a… Well, a stage," She stopped the two in front of one long, white-covered table that was laden with white plates and crystal bowls alike.

Dahlia snatched a cupcake from a towering display, shoving it into Guinevere's hands before grabbing two for herself. Guinevere glanced down at the swirls of pink frosting, decorated with heart sprinkles. _Ah, what the hell_.

She took a bite of the sugary treat. Dahlia looked to be in heaven, her left cheek already decorated with a smear of chocolate. "Pretty good, huh?" The blonde licked her lips.

Guinevere nodded her consent before shoving as much of the cupcake in her mouth as possible. Dahlia laughed—it was companionable, and Guinevere hated to admit it, but she felt warm from the easy way Dahlia was able to talk to her.

"So, Gwen-uh-ve-rah," She purposely butchered the other's name, laughing when said girl shot her a nasty look. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself. Is that, uh, really your name?"

"Yeah," She dragged her tongue over a patch of icing on her thumb. "My mom's crazy into fantasy. She wanted to name me something in that vein, so she decided to name me after King Arthur's wife."

There was a beat of silence as Dahlia took another bite of her second cupcake. "Didn't Arthur, like," She smacked her lips. "Cheat on his wife with his sister? And didn't she end up mackin' with Lancelot?"

Guinevere looked up, unable to hide her surprise. "Um… Kind of, yeah. You know Arthurian legends?"

Dahlia copied Guinevere's earlier action, sucking sugar and icing off her thumb. "Norse and Greek's more of my thing, but yeah. I know it. At least she didn't name you Morgana, that would've been fucked."

The casual curse from the sweet-looking face had Guinevere snorting. She decided, right then, that she was going to be Dahlia's best friend by the end of the summer.

"But, seriously, that is a long name. Do you have a nickname?"

Guinevere crumpled the cupcake wrapper in her hand. "Well," She turned to the table. There were clear plastic cups situated next to a bowl filled with bright-red-something. She hoped it was punch. She wordlessly offered up a cup to Dahlia, who nodded vehemently in agreement. As she poured two glasses, Guinevere continued.

"My Dad's always called me Jenny. I guess Guinevere got bastardized into Jennifer somewhere along the line, so he's always tried to give me a normal name with that," She passed one cup to Dahlia, who wasted no time in downing half of the sugary concoction.

"My name's weird and all but I still like it. My mom started calling me Evie, which I like a heck of a lot better than _Jenny_ ," Guinevere sipped at her own drink. Passionfruit and mango and another, unidentifiably sweet tasted all but exploded in her mouth. She almost gagged on the sugar, practically feeling her teeth tingle with oncoming cavities.

"Evie it is," Dahlia nodded solemnly. She shuffled next to Guinevere's side, pressing her shoulder against the other girl's. Before Guinevere could protest the close contact, Dahlia lifted her occupied hand to point with one finger into the crowd. "You see that girl with the purple hair?"

Frowning, Guinevere squinted. She could see, dodging in and out of the crowd, a girl with violet hair. She was chatting with, it seemed, almost a hundred different people at once. Dressed fashionably in white shorts and a blue peasant top, she certainly seemed the artistic-actor type.

"That's Mabel," Dahlia said. "She's been here longer than I have. I think the age requirement for this place is like, eight, and she managed to get in here at seven. She's pretty much the lead in every other performance."

"Only every other?" Guinevere took a smaller sip of her punch. Dahlia shrugged.

"They try to be fair, here. Everyone deserves a chance to be the leading person. But she still steals the show every scene she's in, even if she's like. A tree."

"Is she a bitch?"

That earned a strange look from Dahlia. "What? No. She's the nicest person here. I think she stepped on a beetle once and cried for like an hour over it. Don't start stereotyping people, Evie. It's not High School Musical."

This earned choked laugh from Guinevere, who tried to swallow down the punch in her lungs. "Okay," She rasped. "Okay, point taken. I'd probably be the role of bitchy grunge friend, anyway."

Dahlia gave her a once over. Granted, Guinevere might have been trying a little too hard this morning—ratty, ripped shorts, black combat boots, a graphic tee and a frayed denim vest…

"Sounds about right," Dahlia went to refill her cup. "It's okay. I'd be the weird, bohemian friend who just kinda wiggles through life," She gave a gesture of her hand to prove her point. "But, hey. I'll be here if you need some hippie advice. Peace and love and all that jazz."

Guinevere turned and rested her hip against the side of the table. Dahlia settled next to her, still sipping from her cup, though her bangs had been pushed back from her dark eyes. "Some pretty cute people here, too."

"Come again?"

The blonde dragged her tongue over her lips. "People. Cuties. Lots of them. Boys and girls, take your pick," Dahlia's eyes took on an edge as they slid across the crowd. She bent over Guinevere's shoulder again—she was a good few inches taller than the girl—to point once more. Her finger led Guinevere's eyes to a gangly, pale-haired youth that was busy chatting with Mabel in the light of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"That's Casey," Dahlia's voice took on an airy quality. "I am determined to end up as one half of a very happy couple this year. We were Romeo and Juliet last year, and it was great."

"Yeah?" Guinevere eyed Casey over. "Did you have fun playing Juliet?"

There was a beat of silence, and Dahlia sidled Guinevere with another stare. "I was Romeo. Casey was Juliet."

Guinevere cocked her head and squinted. "Is… Is Casey a girl? I can't tell from here."

"Casey is Casey," Dahlia relaxed a fraction at Guinevere's nonchalant response. "They're super sweet, too."

"That's cute," Guinevere turned and gave Dahlia the most serious look she could muster. "You must have rocked those tights."

Dahlia stuck one leg out, cocked it against her knee, and tilted her head back till it almost touched her shoulders. "I was _fabulous_. Encores all around."

Sticking the plastic of her cup between her teeth, Guinevere stepped back to give an enthusiastic round of applause to her new companion. Dahlia, on her part, made a show of bowing and blowing Guinevere a kiss. "You and me are going to get along great," The blonde said once Guinevere had stopped choking on a laugh.

Before she could respond, there was a jostle to her left—Casey had, apparently, seen them staring. "Dally!" They threw their arms around Dahlia's neck, sidling up under the girl's chin with a delighted laugh. "I thought that was you! You grew again, my gosh!"

Dahlia looked pleased as all hell. She turned to return Casey's one-sided hug, pressing her cheek against the ashy colored hair. "You know me. I've got a career in basketball lined up if this acting thing doesn't pay out."

Casey laughed and twirled a tassel from their billowy shirt around their fingers. "Don't be silly. You're great. Who's this?" Blue eyes turned to Guinevere, pinning her to the spot. She felt an uncomfortable chill wash over her again—but not because of Casey.

"This is Evie," Dahlia moved to gently jostle Guinevere's shoulder. "It's her first time here."

Casey wasted no time in grabbing onto Guinevere's hand in both of theirs, lifting it up with a laugh. "Oh, welcome! You're going to have a blast here. Stick with Dahlia, she knows practically every nook and cranny of this place!" They swung their head around to offer the blonde a smile. Dahlia shot Guinevere a smug little grin.

"Thanks," Guinevere offered a thin smile of her own as she pulled her hands back. "I wasn't really crazy about the idea, but if everyone's half as nice as you two are, I'll be fine."

"Oh," Casey chirruped and flashed a bright smile. "They're not. Some people here are unholy terrors."

"Yeah," Dahlia pointed one finger upwards. "Like Dominic. God, I hate that guy. He made Jessie cry my second year here, because he wanted to pull a _Carrie_ with fruit punch…"

Guinevere sat her cup down a little harder than necessary on the table. "I got him back," Casey said delicately. "No one makes a girl cry on my watch."

"How dashing of you," Guinevere rubbed at her knuckles, making a mental note of the man's name. Casey beamed under the praise, pulling their long ponytail over their shoulder. They opened their mouth, as if to speak, but they were cut off as a high pitch squeal pierced the room.

The group turned quickly enough to see a woman standing on the stage, tapping her fingers against the microphone in her hands. "Sorry, everyone," She laughed as the volume stabilized. "Still can't really work one of these things to save my life. I'll stick to directing, not acting!"

A polite chuckle worked its way around the room. Dahlia and Casey seemed amused at best, but Guinevere found herself glancing about for her parents. The strange chill had come back, full-force, and she knew now what the feeling was.

Someone was really glaring into her back…

"I'd like to formally welcome all of our new attendees to Backstage Resort, as well as welcome back our returning stars!" The woman gave a bright smile. Her brown hair was piled into a neat, tidy bun, and her collared shirt and flared pencil skirt gave her a demure, if professional, appearance. "For our newer families; I'm Rhonda Nettle. I'm the head counselor of our lovely camp. And, as per tradition, we're happy to have this ceremony in to bring everyone together!"

Another gentle round of applause. Guinevere shifted unsteadily, feeling the chill intensify. Dahlia sent her a concerned look as the girl bounced back and forth on her boots. "You okay?"

Guinevere smiled and hoped it wasn't too anxious-looking. She rubbed her bare arms and tried to focus on Rhonda's tinny voice.

"… And, of course, bunk postings are on the corkboard on the old receptionist desk," She had just finished. "Before I let you all go back to your friends and refreshments, I'd also like to welcome our staff back!"

She motioned to the side of the stage, where various people of differing ages resided. Some looked only a handful of years older than Guinevere; the others appeared to be reaching their twilight, with graying hair and faces dignified with wrinkles. Rhonda began to go on another speech, introducing the staff, and Guinevere took the time to look over the people she'd be learning from the next two months.

A woman in a leopard print skirt and a black leather jacket… In the middle of summer. _Props for dedication_ , Guinevere noted, eying the woman's spiked heels with a sense of jealousy. Her auburn hair was done in careful waves, and her lips painted a fluorescent green. The teenager hoped she was as cool as she appeared to be.

An older man, with thinning white hair pulled into a ponytail. He was tapping against his thighs rhythmically, dressed in a band-tee with jeans, head bobbing a bit. _Music,_ Guinevere noted. He had round sunglasses covering his eyes that reminded her of an 80s Rockstar. It fit, if nothing else.

There were several more interesting people—a woman with half of her head shaved, a grinning, lanky man in a plaid shirt and yellow jeans—but there was one more that caught her attention on the same way the first two had.

He was half in the shadow of the stage, and one thought blazed its way through Guinevere's head.

 _No man has a right to be that damn pretty_.

Sharp cut cheekbones, a thin face and a pretty, straight nose; all framed by wispy-cut, white-blonde hair that fell in a shag around his face. Were those blue highlights? Shoot her now. Dressed in an open-chested, fluffy blouse, black cuffed jeans and ankle-boots, he looked as if he'd stepped out of a contemporary romance novel. The man was leggy, thin and lean—perhaps not conventionally attractive, but with the way he was casually draped over the side of the stage, and the way his eyes were—

Staring directly at Guinevere.

Oh, fuck.

She jerked, caught dead in eying up the man who would most likely be teaching her _something_ , and who was undoubtedly far out of her age range. His eyes were bright and pale, rimmed in… Kohl? Did he do his own makeup?

 _No_ , Guinevere fought back her hormones. _Stop that right now. He's not that…_

Oh, yes, he was.

She was unable to break the eye contact, even now that she had been caught. His eyebrows, winged and perfectly arched, raised only a fraction. Then, a damn miracle—his red lips perked up in a half smile, and he gave a graceful incline of his head, one gloved— _gloved?_ —hand resting over his stomach as he did a little half-bow to Guinevere.

Christ almighty.

Stumbling a bit, Guinevere bowed her own head in return and gave an awkward curtsey, hooking one ankle behind the other as she tucked her hands against her thighs. When she looked up, his grin was wider, but his eyes were directed back towards the stage.

Rhonda was finishing up her last tangent and gave one mighty clap of her hands. "And that's enough rambling for the day! Kids, enjoy the food, and parents—I'm sorry to say, but this might be the last time you see your kids! They might never want to leave here again!"

Polite laughter once more. Guinevere decided she didn't like the whole _laugh when appropriate_ deal. It seemed too forced.

"So," Casey's hands suddenly found purchase on Guinevere's shoulders, startling her. "What was that cute little dip you just did, Evie? Who were you looking at?"

"What?" Guinevere sputtered. "I wasn't—there was no one!"

Dahlia proved herself to be a traitor, peering over the top of Guinevere's head. "Oh, yes, there was. And he is strutting his way over here right now."

"What!" Guinevere spun, panicking, only to hear the two laugh from behind her. There was no one approaching. In fact, the sinfully pretty man had disappeared from view. "Don't do that!" She turned back to Casey and Dahlia, feeling her face turn three shades of red. "He already caught me sizing him up! Ugh, he probably thinks I'm one of those creepy Lolita types…"

"I hated that book," Casey's voice was deadpan. "And, anyway, don't think too much of it. But who were you staring at, exactly? It wasn't Adam Thompson, was it?"

"I have no idea who that is," Guinevere said plainly. "But, um, this guy… He was pretty," She dragged her hands down the denim of her vest. "Blonde hair? Wild, kinda wispy? He was wearing this shirt and it was a little open, and I think he was wearing gloves, too," She wanted to wax poetic on the pale column of his throat, but decided to save that for one of her poetry notebooks hidden in her duffel bag.

"Ooh," A bright voice said from over her shoulder. "Sounds _weird_!"

Guinevere whipped about face, almost nailing Dahlia in her cheek with the way she wildly swung her arms about.

Mabel, the pretty and talented social butterfly, clapped her hands over her mouth. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!" Without waiting for approval, she grabbed Guinevere's hands to steady her, purple-painted lips lifted in a smile. "I just saw you talking to Casey and Dally and I had to come say hi! I'm Mabel."

Guinevere couldn't breathe, still trembling a bit from the surprise. She'd been half-expecting the new mystery man to come and embarrass her, as per every cliché story she'd read on the subject. She wasn't sure if that was better or worse. "Guinevere," She choked. "But call me Evie."

Mabel beamed. She was practically a walking, talking ray of sunshine. "Wow! What a pretty name. Okay, Evie! I just wanted to come say hi. You're new, right? Well, if you ever need help finding a class or you just need to sit with someone, come find me!" She pulled her hands back, brushing out her flowery top. "I've been here for a long time, so I know practically everyone—except for our newbies, of course!" She chattered on. "And I think I know who you're talking about! The mystery teacher, I mean."

This caught all three teenagers' attention. "For real?" Casey bent forward, fingers pressed to their mouth. "He was standing with the directors and counselors, obviously. It _wasn't_ Adam Thompson, right?"

"Who the hell is Adam Thompson?" Guinevere demanded. She was ignored as Mabel tittered and wagged a singular finger.

"Nope! Besides, Mr. Thompson was a brunette before he started graying, Casey. I think the guy that Evie was dipping to—"

"Curtseying," Guinevere interrupted. They all glanced to her. "He… Bowed, so I curtseyed."

"Why?" Dahlia stressed the word out, long and slow.

"Cause it's just… What you do?" Guinevere's mind was alighted with fairytales regarding polite manners to avoid death and curses.

Mabel continued on as if she hadn't been interrupted. "Was our new stage combat teacher! A Mr. Javan Moreno! He's done some big stuff on Broadway, apparently. I think he was the last choreographer for _Les Misérables_ and _Phantom_!"

"I think everyone's been in _Les Mis_ and _Phantom_ ," Dahlia gave a wiggle of her hand to indicate how unimpressed she was. She inclined her head to stare at Guinevere, lips pursing in a frown. "Seriously, though, what was with the dip?"

The girl gave an aggravated noise and stamped her foot, earning a collective giggle from Casey and Mabel both. "I told you! He bowed! Like this," She mimicked his half nod, puffing her hair away from her cheeks. "And I told you, I live in fantasy land! When someone bows, you curtsey or bow back, because if you don't, you are just _asking_ to get cursed!"

A beat of silence followed her explanation. Guinevere realized how odd that must have sounded a second too late and felt her cheeks begin a telltale burn. _Please, don't laugh,_ the thought was a little desperate. _I know it's weird but please don't laugh. I was just starting to like you guys_.

"That makes sense," Casey bobbed their head, lips puckered in a serious expression. "I mean, _Beauty and the Beast_ all happened because Prince Adam was too much of a butt to let a beggar lady into his castle."

"Who happened to be a witch," Mabel gave a sagely nod. Her fingers steeped under her chin as she gave Guinevere another megawatt smile. "That's a good policy to have, though! And I think it's really cute. How do you curtsey in shorts, though? I thought you had to brush out your skirts, like…?" She pantomimed having heavy cloth in her hands, spreading her legs out and giving a full, half-waist dip.

Guinevere gaped for a moment. Then, she remembered she was dealing with theater kids—her odd quirks were practically welcomed here. She sent a quick apology to her father for acting out before turning her attention back to Mabel. "No, see, it's not about the skirts. It's all in the legs. Watch, watch."

She repeated her earlier motion in a grander scale, sliding one ankle back, bending her knees and twisting her hands out by her side before bowing her head. "It works better with a dress, admittedly. Looks nicer."

Mabel did it again, following Guinevere's instructions to give the same bow. After a prolonged bout of stifled laughter, Casey and Dahlia both joined in. Dahlia added a little flare by kicking her left leg out as far as it could go, balancing on one slippered foot. "Your _Majesty_ ," She dropped her voice several octaves, sounding more like a sick goat than a noble.

When her parents finally managed to find her through the crowd, Guinevere was in a fit of laughter with the other three, hands clasped tight over her stomach. "Do it again!" She goaded Dahlia as the blonde gave another exaggerated curtsey to Mabel.

"No, no, let me!" Casey bounced in between, sucking in a large breath and pushing their chest out before bending their body at a near ninety degrees for the curtsey, their voice coming out squeaky and high. "Your _royal_ _ **highness**_!"

Distracted as she was by Mabel's excited jumping and clapping, Guinevere was startled when Sarah's hand came to rest on her shoulder. "Hey, Princess," Her voice was soft. "You look like you're having fun."

Not wanting to admit it with her father—looking smug as all hell—behind her, Guinevere gave a shrug. "Yeah, we're making fun of something I did. Oh, um, guys, these are my parents," The teenager turned, only to be startled by the wide-eyed look of admiration that had plastered itself over Mabel's face.

"Oh, my gosh," She was breathless, red-faced, and—was she trembling? "You're _Sarah Williams_!" She took a step forward to grab Guinevere's arm, squealing. "Your mom is _Sarah Williams_!"

"Levitt," Was Guinevere's confused reply. "You know my mom?"

"Of course, I know your mom!" Mabel bounced forward, startling mother and daughter alike. Sarah leaned back as the excited teen came to a stop in front of her and shot a look to Guinevere, who shrugged helplessly. "You wrote _The Goblin King_! And you did all the illustrations! And—and your mother was the leading lady for _The Labyrinth_!"

This earned a startled look from Casey, who's eyes swung quickly from Sarah to Guinevere. "That's Mabel's favorite play," They stuttered. "And, um, mine too. Wow."

"It's the best!" Mabel did a little twirl, her bright hair swirling around her. "And then you wrote a whole book on the Labyrinth and the people in it, and it was so good, and the drawings were so nice, and—"

"Breathe," Guinevere grabbed the tittering girl's shoulders. "Breathe! You're turning as purple as your hair!"

It took Mabel a moment to gasp, her grin stretching from cheek to cheek.

"Well," Darren sounded marginally impressed. "Looks like you've got a fanclub, Sarah."

The older woman gave a small smile before pulling Guinevere back to her side, pushing her bangs back. "They're kicking us old timers out," She ran her fingers through Guinevere's hair, trying to rearrange her hair into something mildly presentable. The teenager recognized the motion—her mother was nervous. "I'll write you a letter the minute we're home. As soon as the phone ban is lifted, I want you to at least call once a week. Okay?" She pressed a kiss to Guinevere's head, lingering just a moment longer.

"Yes, mom."

"Be safe, princess." She hooked one finger around Guinevere's, holding it for another beat. Though she was smiling, her eyes were a little cloudy and her cheeks were pallid.

The teenager sent a look to her father. Darren had also seemed to notice the change in his wife and brought his arm around the woman's shoulders. "Mom?" Guinevere didn't tug her hand back just yet. "Are you okay?"

Sarah blinked.

"Oh! Oh, yes. I'm sorry," She sent an apologetic look to the other three children before pulling her own hand back. "I'm just going to miss you, princess. Be safe, and—"

"I won't get cursed, Mom," Guinevere smiled. "I'll be here when you come to the performances."

Sarah nodded. Guinevere crossed her arms and frowned as a cold feeling settled in her stomach as she watched her father lead her mother towards the exit. The other three settled beside her, and she felt Mabel's hand rest gently on her arm.

 _Everything's okay_ , they seemed to be trying to reassure her.

Guinevere's frowned deepened.


	3. The Unseelie Court

"I guess I was hoping that I'd get to stay with one of you guys," Guinevere let her hand drop from the bunk assignment page. Her name read in big, bold letters along with two others.

 **ROOM 613  
AMBER BELOÍSE  
YOLANDA CRUIZ  
GUINEVERE LEVITT**

Amidst the crowd, Mabel managed to slide her arm around Guinevere's neck. Dahlia's hand grabbed at hers. Guinevere was normally not one for PDA, but she was glad for the presence of her three new friends and their comforts.

"Don't worry," Casey reassured. "After auditions today, it's pretty much a free rec day. We'll be able to spend all day together! I mean, we'll only be in our bunks to go to sleep. Even if you get paired up with a…"

"A jerk," Dahlia offered.

Casey sniffed. "Someone _unpleasant_ ," They shot Dahlia a look. "You won't even have to talk to them! You can just pretend you're asleep, or that you're not a morning person."

"I'm not," Guinevere rubbed her neck once Mabel pulled her arm back. "I'm not really a social person. The fact that I'm even with you three is really damn weird for me."

Mabel jerked her thumb in Dahlia's direction. "Don't worry. Dahlia went her first year without talking to anyone. I think the first time we all heard her speak was at the first performance…"

"In which she stole the spotlight as Sophie in _Mamma Mia_ ," Casey sent another look towards Dahlia, albeit a pleased one this time around. Dahlia preened under the praise, looking at her nails with a small smile.

A soft bell rings out from above them, silencing all conversations in the filled room. " _Campers_ ," The intercom is a tinny, far-away version of Rhonda's voice. " _Please report to the corresponding stage rooms for your chosen medium. Will all Drama performers make their way to the Cabaret theater and all Musical performers to the Moulin theater; we'll begin audtions shortly."_

Mabel began to hop excitedly as campers filed out around them, the room's volume reaching cacophonic levels. "Oh, finally! I can't wait! I grabbed sheet music from _Miss Saigon_ for this! Dahlia, you're doing Musical too, right? What did you pick?"

The blonde dragged her hair behind her ears. " _Wicked_."

"A classic!" Mabel threw her hands in the air for a moment before latching onto Dahlia's, tugging the girl a few steps forward. "Casey, Evie! Good luck in Drama auditions! Evie, don't worry about placement—it is your first year, after all!" With that, Mabel jerked Dahlia after her into the throng of people, disappearing in the mob of tank-tops and shorts.

Guinevere crossed her arms. "She's… Excitable."

Casey nodded. "Mabel is a sweetie. Popular, funny, good at pretty much everything she applies herself to…" Here, they sent Guinevere a deadpan look, similar to Dahlia's. "But she's about as thick as a brick wall. I love her, but she has no filter between this," A gesture to their temple. "And this." A pointed finger to their lips.

Guinevere bit her own lip to keep from giggling. "Help me to the Cabaret?" She managed to say around a chortle.

Casey gave a low bow, to which Guinevere mocked their previous curtseys. "Why, it would be a pleasure."

They did a good job of keeping the teenager from losing her way, though her hand was fisted in the back of Casey's shirt the whole time they navigated their way outside. "The stage we were at before was the main theater—the Globe. That's where a lot of the classes'll take place this year," They moved Guinevere in front of them just in time to avoid a stampede of boys, who were throwing Shakespearian insults over their shoulders as they play-fought through the crowd.

"Everyone here is so chipper," Guinevere wrinkled her nose. Casey laughed.

"Well, yeah. Everyone wants to be here. Some of them are here on scholarships or had town recreation centers pay the tuition. It's not exactly cheap to go here," At this, Casey's lips pursed in a tight frown, though it was wiped away quickly. "You make it sound like you were expecting people to be miserable."

The dark-haired teen shifted and curled her hand in her jean vest. "Well," She felt like such a brat. A selfish, whiny little brat. Man, her dad was right… "I didn't want to come here, at first."

Casey's eyes widened. Guinevere pushed on. "I heard about this place when I was ten, and I wanted to go so bad—but my dad didn't want to send me. And I know, even though my mom was trying to back me up, she didn't really want me to go either. Different reasons, of course, but still," She was careful as they reached a small set of steps that led down from the main hall to a large doorway, currently flung wide open for the children flooding in.

"I'd given up on going to Backstage. So, I had plans this summer with my friends at home," Abby's grinning face and Joshua's kind eyes flared in her mind's eye for a moment. "And then my dad's suddenly like 'No, you're going to that place you wanted to go years ago', because he and my mom don't trust me alone in the house."

An awkward silence filtered between them as they stepped into the circular room. There were at least a dozen rows of folding chairs set up to circle the stage in the middle of the room. Three adults were sitting at a table, though one of them was starting to stand to try and organize the chattering children.

Casey grabbed Guinevere's shoulder to turn her towards them, suddenly busying themselves in straightening her vest and brushing out her hair from Sarah's earlier attentions. Guinevere stiffened, but allowed the primping with a confused glance. "Everyone has their own way of looking at things," The blonde said. "So, don't feel bad just because you were dragging your feet at first. I mean, even if you have fun, it wasn't originally your choice. That's okay to be upset about."

They offered a smile. Guinevere was struck dumb by how oddly kind the teenager in front of her was. "Help me fix my ponytail?"

They took two folding chairs by the adults' table. Casey shook their long hair out, and after running their fingers through it, gave a nod to Guinevere. The girl proceeded to pull the pale strands up against their skull, carefully dragging bangs back to tie with Casey's sparkled scrunchie. "What piece did you bring to recite?" She tried to make gentle conversation.

"Oh, something from _The Glass Menagerie_ ," Casey gave a fluid shrug, tanned shoulders dropping under Guinevere's hands. "What about you?"

" _A_ _Midsummer Night's Dream_ ," Guinevere released Casey's ponytail with a satisfied smile. "The part where Titania rips Oberon a new one. Any scene where a woman tells a man it's going to be done her way, or there'll be hell to pay, is an instant hit with me."

Casey laughed. "Oh, man. I hope you say that to Kieran Gold."

"Come again?"

The blonde turned to face Guinevere. "Kieran Gold. He's the director for the master's acting class, but he's kind of a…" Their eyes swung about nervously before whispering. "A misogynistic _jerk_. He tried to fight against Dahlia and I being Romeo and Juliet. He didn't want her to play Romeo—can you believe that?" They crossed their ankles, reclining back in their seat. "You're lucky you don't have to deal with him. I thought Dahlia was going to lob a light at his head."

Before Guinevere could respond, the adult that had been corralling the other campers came to a stop in front of the stage. "Alright, everyone, settle down!" The young man rose his voice above the din. "We'll be calling you by alphabetical order to come and recite your pieces. Remember, read, don't memorize! It's only the first day. We'll have all of the summer to memorize parts for our acts. We'll only get through about half of you before we have to call it a day, so we'll resume this tomorrow," He shoved his glasses up his nose as a relieved murmur came from the crowd. "If you don't have a copy of your piece, come on up to the table—we printed out doubles."

Casey was kind enough to brave the swarm for both of them. They handed Guinevere her paper, sitting down with a heavy grunt in their seat. "You really don't have to stress," They reassured her once again. "Those three are super sweet. New staff, but nothing to be worried about. The first day is never really taken seriously," They twisted their left wrist around, staring pointedly at a wide-faced watch. "And this should probably take… An hour and a half? Then we'll have dinner with Dahlia and Mabel. Everything'll be fine."

The auditions could have gone far worse, in retrospect. She saw two younger children—only around twelve and thirteen—break down on stage from the nerves, but both times an older camper ran to the stage to soothe them through their tears, helping them through their monologues. Casey sent her a smarmy look each time, as if to say _Not so bad, right?_

Guinevere had to agree. Though she had a nervous itch at the back of her neck as she pushed her way up onto the stage, she couldn't help but feel right with having lights on her. _Words are power_ , she recalled her mother telling her. _Say the words right, and you'd be surprised what can happen._

The whole point of acting was to sell it to the audience. Words, make-up, costumes, body-language; it was all to make the audience believe in their actors and actresses. Guinevere almost imagined she could feel the thrum of power in her voice and her movements as she found her focus at a point above Casey, her voice echoing mid-monologue through the room.

" _The childing autumn, angry winter, change/Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,/ By their increase, now knows not which is which:/And this same progeny of evils comes/From our debate, from our dissension;/We are their parents and original_!"

Perhaps Titania had not shouted the words with such an angry conviction—but it was all Guinevere could see. An angered Faerie Queen, demanding obedience from the King; follow my law, or be damned by it. She could almost see it. A thin, willowy woman who would not be bowed by the wind, much less a man, standing tall and angry and strong.

What a role model.

It was the soft applause that brought Guinevere back to herself. With a hurried bow, she scrambled her way down the stage, feeling the tremors of nervousness pass through her hands. Her vision was swimming along the sides and a headache was brewing, but she tried not to let it show.

"Great job," Casey whispered once she sat back down. "You were _great_. Wish me luck?" Casey's last name, apparently, was Lexington. Guinevere gave a soft wish of luck as the blonde spirited themselves away to the stage, standing in the center with their arms stretched out by their sides.

Casey's own monologue was harsh and bitter, with roiling words and a venom that had Guinevere's hair standing on edge. _Damn_ , Guinevere watched as Casey stamped a foot down, blue eyes narrowed into points as they snarled their way through their lines. _Mark me down as scared and intrigued._ Casey's voice, normally soft and utterly androgynous, dropped into a masculine octave to fit the character.

" _Oh, I could tell you many things to make you sleepless. My enemies plan to dynamite this place!_ " Here, Casey gave a dramatic half-twist, their profile glaring down at the stage. " _They're going to blow us all sky high some night. I'll be glad, very happy, and so will you! You'll go up, up on a broomstick, over Blue Mountain with seventeen gentleman callers. You ugly, babbling old witch._ "

Guinevere made sure to clap till her hands were sore.

Casey gave a practiced curtsey and bounced off the stage as if they weighed nothing. "Well?" They slid back into their folding chair amidst whispers of glee from other campers who obviously knew them. "How did it look from down here?"

"Scary," Guinevere nodded and fought off a wave of nausea. "But great. I thought you were gonna throttle someone with that look on your face."

"Acting," Casey sounded smug.

The rest of the auditions went by in a blur. They only got through the Ms of last names. The counselors went through all the auditions in only a half hour; the rest of the time was to be spent with the campers, taking them through their performance and sorting them in appropriate level classes due to it.

Guinevere resisted the urge to vomit when her name was called. She was thinking that, maybe, staying behind the scenes for acting would be much easier than going through repetitive audition periods. She still had that little, throbbing headache that had started after her performance. It just felt like a pressure was building behind her eyes…

The counselors were all smiling when she approached. The young man with glasses held out his hand to her. "Guinevere Levitt! I'm Carl Ebott. I just want to tell you, that was an impressive performance for someone who hasn't had any formal training. Especially for a first year here at Backstage," He turned to the other two—women, who seemed to share his sentiments.

"This is Barb Hanson, and Lucy Winter, the other Drama counselors."

Guinevere listened as the three prattled on in succession about notes on her performance. She felt a little fuzzy from nerves to focus entirely, and they seemed to notice this and take pity on her.

"To put it bluntly," Barb tapped a ringed finger on the desk. "You did extremely well for someone who's only done one or two community shows. There was a lack of focus, though—you didn't seem to know where your attention should sit without another body."

"With some training, that'll flit away like nothing," Lucy flicked her fingers out to demonstrate. "You have a lot of passion in your voice, though," Here, Lucy glanced down at a sheet. Even from her upside-down vantage of it, Guinevere could tell it was her class selection for the camp.

"I'm glad to see that you're taking the Shakespeare class," Lucy smiled. "You'll do great in it. I think we can set her in the intermediate level. Not bad at all, but still some work to be done. Sound about fair?"

There was a collective nod from the other two. Guinevere still felt unfocused. "Maybe we can put you into the Master Shakespeare class, if you perform well enough," Carl's comment earned some murmurs from the women. "Don't worry about it too much for now. Here, you run on back and relax," They handed her the schedule with her classes after Lucy scrawled something at the top.

Almost numbly, she took the sheet with murmured thanks and hurried back to her seat.  
"Woah," Casey jolted when she flopped down. "You look sick. What's wrong? Did they put you in level one?"

Guinevere handed them the pink sheaf of paper. Casey took it and gave a little squeak of joy. "Holy damn, Evie! They put you in level _three_!" They grabbed onto Guinevere's arm, shaking it gently. "Dahlia and I are only level four! This is so great, we might have a class together after all—!"

They were dismissed for dinner.

She was still dizzy. "Hey, Casey?" She stood, managed to steady herself, and grabbed at her new friend's arm. The blonde tilted their head. "Do we have aspirin at camp?"

"The nurse would have it, but I don't know if she's at camp yet… Are you okay? You look pale."

"Yeah. Nerves," She dragged a hand through her dark hair. "Mom thinks I have an aversion to stage lights. Whenever I went on at the community theater, I always got sick after. Headaches, dizziness…"

"Let's get you some water," Casey took her hand and led her through the children to the exit. From the double doors, they turned opposite from the location they came from originally, going through a hallway of rooms. Briefly, Guinevere noticed her room number flash by on a gold placard as they followed the children down the carpeted hall and into a new exit.

It led out onto the actual camp grounds. Guinevere already felt better with fresh air coming in around her. Casey seemed relieved as well, offering her a bright smile. "Nothing like fresh mountain air, huh?"

"We're in New York," Was Guinevere's blunt reply.

There were several buildings that dotted across the large expanse of land. The one closest to where they were standing had a large, brightly colored banner that read _Costumes!_ , with the windows covered with polka-dotted curtains. The one across from that read _Weaponry_ , with darkened windows and a fenced in area with a sawhorse shoved to the side.

"I'm gonna guess that's for costume design," Guinevere pointed to the cottage-esque building and then to the sawhorse. "And that's for the stage combat."

"Yep," Casey led her down the steps from the main part of the hotel and to the grass of the yard. "That's the café," They pointed across from where they were, to an extension of the main building that was curved off to the side. "The only way to get into it from inside the hotel is through the kitchen… Which we are never allowed in," Casey took her hand to guide her across the grass and towards the café. The doors were open, revealing the beginnings of long wooden tables and plenty of chattering guests.

"There's a room in the hotel that used to be the cafeteria, but Backstage got too big to have everyone in it at once," The blonde explained. Guinevere had to pause just a few yards away from the café, leaning against the cold concrete exterior of the hotel's yellow walls. Casey stopped with her. "The cafeteria's the canteen now. That'll be open after tomorrow, once we're all on an actual schedule. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah!" Guinevere waved them off. "Just give me a minute."

Casey eyed her uneasily. "I'll go find Dahlia and Mabel. We'll all go get dinner together. Will you…?"

"I'll be fine. It's just been a long day for me. Go ahead, Casey. I'd like a minute to myself, anyway."

Still not looking totally convinced, Casey began at a quick jog into the café, disappearing in the various colors and shapes of people. Guinevere gave a small sigh of relief and sunk into the grass, enjoying the cool shade and the small amount of privacy she was given. No one seemed to notice her, as busy as they were with getting dinner. It was nice.

She closed her eyes for just a moment. She could hear the distant chatter and laughter of her fellow campers, as well as the sounds of clinking dishware from the café. She could smell dinner—something rich and a little too heavy for a hot summer night, but it still smelled delicious. The hot air clung to her skin; the grass was scratchy against her calves. All in all, it was just a summer day.

When she opened her eyes again, she was suddenly aware that there was someone standing next to her. Her legs tensed in an instant reaction to run, but her body remained limp against the side of the building. Guinevere glanced down, noting immediately the heeled, black ankle boots she had spotted earlier in the day.

The counselor… What had Mabel said his name was? Javan Moreno. That was it. He was standing tall, head cocked to one side, his sharp profile accentuated in the evening shade. After a long moment of staring out at the café, his head turned to tilt downwards, facing Guinevere entirely.

His eyes were mismatched. His left iris—something was wrong with it. The color seemed to be darker than the other, but at the same time, it wasn't. In the darkness and the strange angle, she couldn't really tell what the difference was.

"Didn't your mother tell you staring was rude?" His voice was low, lilting with some kind of accent that she couldn't easily identify. It fit his entire odd persona, though the way he drew out the word _mother_ sent an unpleasant shiver over her body. Her head gave another ungainly throb.

"Did you mean now, or back in the hotel?" The words came unbidden. Guinevere didn't even realize she had just admitted to watching him before until she saw his lips tilt in a misshapen grin. His teeth were white and too-sharp. The chill returned to her arms, but she couldn't bring her legs to push up off the ground.

"Touché," After a long moment, he outstretched a gloved hand towards her. She took it after a second of hesitation.

Javan lifted her up smoothly. It was almost as if she weighed nothing with the way he simply pulled her to her feet. She rocked unsteadily on her heels but remained standing. "Did your little troupe abandon you?" His voice was almost a sneer, though he was still smiling.

Despite his pretty face and oddly attractive looks, Guinevere's opinion of him was quickly souring. Was he _mocking_ her? "Well?" He flicked one strand of his hair to the side and met her gaze. Standing face-to-face with him—well, more like face-to-shoulder—she was able to see that his left eye looked to be almost black. The shadows didn't help much with discerning the color.

"They're meeting up, if you must know," She crossed her arms under her chest and turned about face, staring hard at the open entry way to the café. "I wasn't feeling well, so I waited out here."

"Poor princess," His tongue wrapped over the last word in a hiss. Hearing her mother's normally affectionate nickname twisted like that had her head jerking around too fast. Her vision swam for a split second, and her legs gave an ungainly buckle.

He caught her elbow before she could fall. His face had smoothed out into its previous blank façade. "The summer heat can do terrible things when you are already stressed," His voice had adopted a casually polite tone as he rested one hand on her bicep once she stood tall. "You should take care."

She stepped away from his hands. "Thank you," She gave a nod of her head. "I'll keep that in mind." She didn't manage to keep the sarcasm from her tone. It only got her a small smirk, though it was nowhere near the previous level of hostility.

"Such manners," He gave a little chuckle. "I believe your friends are coming for you now, princess. Mind what I said about the heat."

True enough, Guinevere saw Mabel's bright shock of hair come bobbing through the crowd, followed by the girl actually hopping above the crowd. "Evie! Evie!"

Guinevere turned her head to say something to the counselor, only to find he had vanished from her side, most likely having slipped into the crowd of hungry campers and directors alike.

"Oof!" She wasn't prepared when Mabel bumped into her.

"Are you alright? Casey said you weren't feeling good!" She pulled back, looking Guinevere over with a frown. "Maybe it's because all you had to eat was a _cupcake_."

"Watch your mouth," Dahlia was the next to appear, Casey by her side. "Cupcakes are good. I will not listen to your slander on the best treat in the world."

Mabel turned, thick eyebrows bunching in exasperation. "Dally. Cupcakes are _great_. But they're so not good if that's all you eat for lunch!" She made a face just at the thought. "All that sugar? Plus, the punch tasted like someone threw a whole bag of syrup in it!"

Guinevere's stomach rolled at the memory of the sticky-sweet drink.

"Here," Casey pressed a water bottle into Guinevere's hands. "Drink this. We wanted to make sure you wanted to eat before we actually got in line."

Guinevere uncapped the bottle and chugged half of it in one go. "Yeah," She gasped once she had finished. "Yeah. I mean, I'd better try to get something in there, right?"


	4. Dryads

Her roommates were quiet, unassuming girls who didn't even bother glancing up once Guinevere entered the room. The both of them had taken the bunkbed to the right to the room, leaving the one to the left totally open for Guinevere to take.

"You don't want a top bunk?" She asked the girl who had taken the bottom. The dark-eyed girl sent her a quick look and readjusted the bow keeping her black, curly bun tied to her head.

"I like bottom bunks better," The necklace she wore spelled out her name; _Amber_. "You can't do this with a top bunk," The girl sat herself down on the mattress, grabbed at the hanging fabric from the wood, and jerked it to the left. It curtained the entirety of the bottom bunk, hiding Amber from view.

 _Oh_ , Guinevere thought. _Okay, then_.

Yolanda was as chatty as Amber was. Though, she did offer Guinevere a small smile as she finished unpacking into the dresser by the bathroom. "We already showered and everything," She spoke over her shoulder. "Bathroom's all yours, Guinevere."

"Thanks. You can just call me Evie," After struggling to put her suitcase and her duffel bag—lovingly dropped off by one of the many staff members—onto the bottom bunk, it took her a minute to find her pajamas buried near the bottom.

"I'll keep the light on the table on," Yolanda gestured to the bedside table situated between the two bunks. "But we're heading to bed. Wake up call's at 8:15."

"Sure," She grabbed one of her towels and added it to the pile. "I'll be quick and quiet."

Yolanda nodded and hauled herself up the ladder and into her bed, the mattress squeaking with the weight of a body. Guinevere hurried into the bathroom, twisting the knobs on the shower and throwing her towel onto the side of the sink.

The water was lukewarm, mostly due to the dozens of other campers that were probably trying to shower at the moment. It only got her out of the shower quicker than normal, shaking just a bit as she hurriedly toweled herself off.

She threw on her shorts and the matching top before quietly opening the door and flicking off the bathroom lights. Showering and brushing her teeth had only taken, at most, half an hour, but Yolanda and Amber were already sleeping. Or, she assumed Amber was sleeping; she couldn't see her with the entirety of the bunk closed off.

Props to the original idea though. Guinevere slid her suitcase and duffel bag underneath her bunk and curled on the fresh linens. After a moment of deliberation, she twisted the switch for the lamp and bathed the room in darkness. Their window was facing the mountains, due west. There would be no early morning sun or moonlight, and thus the room was pitch black.

Guinevere brought the sheets to her chin and decided to take a page from Amber's book, grabbing the small curtain and jerking it shut. She could at least pretend she was alone. She rolled to her side and stared at the wall her bunk was pressed against, snuggling into her pillow and sheets.

She didn't remember even being tired before she fell asleep.

 _She had always had very vivid dreams. Not quite lucid, but almost there. Guinevere found herself sitting in an orchard, fenced in by tall, iron-wrought gates. While the gates themselves looked sinister, with sharp points and twisted metal, the garden was lovely. Soft grass under her legs, a warm breeze on her face, the fragrant smell of spring flowers…_

 _The light changed, shadows stretching across the ground for a brief moment. Guinevere didn't find herself worrying. Another presence was by her side, a thin hand resting on the back of her shoulder. "Welcome back," The voice said. Guinevere turned, allowing herself to be lifted up by the hands. She couldn't discern who the person in front of her was—her dream obscured them as if they were far away; blurry, out of focus, but still visible; if just barely._

 _"_ _Where am I?" Even her voice held a dreamy quality to it. Too breathy, too fluttery, not nearly confrontational enough. She dragged a hand across her eyes, only to have the person take her hands in theirs._

 _"_ _None of that, now," Their own hand brushed at her eyes, a gentle thumb rubbing against her cheek. "You're in the orchard. It's your first time here. I'm quite curious to see what will bloom."_

 _"_ _Bloom?" She opened her eyes. The figure was still blurry. The garden, however, was beautifully clear and clean. Her new friend gestured upwards. When Guinevere followed, she could see the trees for the first time._

 _Jade green leaves, almost jewel-like, twinkling in dappled sunlight. Their branches were heavy with fruit, but like her friend, they were blurry. Immaterial, unreal. "It has been awhile since they bore fruit," Her friend told her. "The last time they gave a harvest… Well, your mother was here."_

 _Curious, Guinevere pulled away to rest her hand on the bark of a tree. The bark trembled as if it were excited by her presence. The fruits shook as well, taking on a bright gleam despite their incorporeal forms._

 _"_ _They gave off pomegranates for your mother," Her friend came by her side, a hand resting delicately against her waist. "She likened herself to Persephone, I suppose. Don't take a bite, don't give in to temptation, or else risk being lost forever…" They gave a chuckle. "It's not such a bad place to get lost in. But the trees are fickle things. What fruit will you bare, I wonder?"_

 _Guinevere lifted her hand. As if obeying to her will, the branches lowered, allowing her to take a single fruit into her hand. It was heavy and warm, and smelled of sunshine. She brought it to her nose to take in a deep breath of the beautiful scent, eyes closing. When she opened them again, she held a single apple._

 _A golden apple._

 _"_ _My, my," Her friend laid their hand over the side of the fruit. "This is quite an open-ended choice."_

 _"_ _What do you mean?" Guinevere let them take the apple. Her friend rolled it in their hands, back and forth, as fluid as water._

 _"_ _You know the stories, don't be coy. This kind of apple," They threw it into the air and caught it easily. "Has done so many things over the years. It is what allowed Melanion to wed Atalanta. It was the weapon that Eris chose that started the Trojan War," They circled around Guinevere, their hand returning once more to her waist._

 _"_ _For the Norse, it was ambrosia. A single bite, a life of immortality and youth," The apple was pressed back into her hands. Her friend hovered over her. She wished that she could see their face. Guinevere looked back down to the apple, light from the orchard glimmering off the skin. She wondered what it tasted like._

 _Her friend pulled their hand away and tapped the apple's stem. "Tell me, princess," Suddenly, their voice hit her with a sharp clarity. That accent..._

 _Her head snapped upwards. Javan was staring at her, his eyes reflecting the gold from the apple. She took a step back from him, noting how the dark shadows casted themselves across their little section of the orchard. "What does this apple mean to you?" He advanced on her, matching her every step with two of his own. "Is it a message of war? To the fairest, this apple does belong…" He caught her wrist in his bony fingers. "Or is it a way to catch you and keep you locked in here?"_

Guinevere woke up to the intercom blaring in the hallway. Her body was locked tight, fingers digging into the sheets, and she felt her throat constricting. Sweat was trickling down her forehead. " _Good morning, campers_!" Rhonda's voice blared. " _Breakfast starts in fifteen minutes in the café! We'll everyone there!_ "

There was a shuffle of her roommates moving about. Shakily, Guinevere ripped her curtains back, swinging her legs off of the mattress. Amber recoiled back once she came into view. "Are you sick?" The girl pulled back. Yolanda poked her head out from the bathroom. "You look like you're gonna barf."

"Bad dream," Guinevere dragged her hands over her eyes and hurried to get dressed.

She felt a little more human after brushing her teeth and splashing water on her face, but she knew she still looked like death warmed over. Dahlia's expression said just as much when she approached the group, who were milling outside on the café's lawn.

"Jesus Christ," Dahlia stepped forward to grab Guinevere's arms. So much _touching_ , at the camp… "You look like you're about to keel over."

Guinevere shook her off with a little sigh. Casey and Mabel crowded in closer. "Didn't sleep well. First night in a new place, and all of that. You know how it goes. Come on, what's for breakfast?" She put on a brave smile and gestured for her three friends to lead the way.

The directors and counselors roamed the room, talking to students and staff alike. Guinevere found herself settled between Dahlia and Mabel, stabbing viciously at a plate of egg whites and bacon. "Girl, eat the bacon," Dahlia's fork suddenly smacked hers. "Or I will eat it. All of it."

"Feel free," Before she could dump it to her friend's plate, Mabel stopped her.

"At least eat some toast! I know you're not feeling great, but you need to keep a full stomach. The counselors don't have any patience for grumpy students," The girl frowned when Guinevere reluctantly took a bite of her breakfast. "Thank you."

After a moment of choking down her food, she finally managed to ask; "What do we even do today, if we've already auditioned?"

"Sit in the chairs and daydream," Dahlia's response was flat. "We're not allowed to wander around until lunch, and then it's back to the chairs to wait for everyone else to finish."

"This is why I'm glad I get called on the second day," Mabel fluffed out her hair and beamed. Guinevere squinted at her uncannily happy attitude. "I have more time to practice and think about my delivery!"

"Does it even matter?" Dahlia pointed her fork accusingly across Guinevere's plate. "You always get placed in the highest level. Everyone knows you're guaranteed a leading role, Mabel. I don't even know why they make you audition anymore."

"It wouldn't be fair if she just got the part and level every time," Casey argued. "She has to show that she earned it!"

Their soft, tittering argument continued. Guinevere found herself distracted, staring at the open doorway. Despite the children passing in and out, over the clinking of cutlery and chatting of children, she could focus on him entirely.

Javan seemed damned intent on throwing her day off. He was reclining against the archway, staring out at the crowd—not at her, thank god—with an apple in his hand.

… An _apple_?

Her dream came back to her in a startling clarity. She watched the man as he bowed his head, sinking too-sharp teeth into the skin of the apple. When he lifted his head, he made eye-contact with her. The juice from the fruit was beginning to drip down his chin. If it had been colored red, he would look all the world like a vampire.

Javan offered her a tight smile, eyes narrowed, and raised the apple up as if to salute her. Guinevere hardly noticed she had shot up from the table till there was a hand on her wrist. "Evie?"

Casey's eyes were wide. Dahlia looked confused. Mabel, perturbed. Guinevere glanced at her friends before looking back at the archway. Javan had vanished.

Guinevere brushed them down. "Thought I saw someone I knew," She smiled at her friends.

"Oh!" Mabel pushed her hands on the table to stand, her eyes glancing over the camp. "Do you want to go see them?"

"Uh."

"Go ahead! Go on!"

"No, that's okay," She quickly looked down at her fingers, rubbing them to instill warmth. She had that strange chill warp its way down her spine once more. It was starting to get really old, really quick. "I'll probably see him later."

 _If he keeps being a creepy stalker._

The rest of breakfast was, thankfully, uneventful. The same could be said for the rest of the day. After saying goodbye to both Dahlia and Mabel, Casey and Guinevere found themselves stationed back in the theater, lounging in their seats as student after student recited their monologues. Before they were even a quarter of the way through, Guinevere found her mind wandering.

She hoped her friends were doing well, and having fun. She wondered, briefly, if her mother found the silence of their house disconcerting without her there to raise a racket. She dismissed the idea of her father missing her, because it was not in his nature to miss people. He tended to forget about everything surrounding him until it directly affected his life.

Guinevere wondered why her mother ever married her father.

Lunch break came with a delighted cry from the half of the student body that had been lounging in seats all day. "Alright, alright!" Carl waved his hands to try and calm the horde of excited children down. "Go on, off to lunch! We'll do evaluations when we come back. Then we'll discuss what our two performances will be for the year."

Casey had her out the door in a hot second. "This is, by far, the worst part of the year," They wagged his finger in her face. "Just all the sitting and the waiting. We'll eventually just spend this time practicing. Rehearsal and all."

"Till then," Guinevere lamented and hooked a hand in the fabric over her chest. "We _suffer_."

This earned a laugh from Casey as they fought their way out of the building and into the yard. Dahlia and Mabel were already waiting for them, with the latter all a-twitter from her own audition. "It was so great!" She threw her fork in the air once they were seated, almost stabbing Casey in the cheek with the plastic prongs. "I did _Mr. Cellophane_. Everyone loved it! I can't wait for my evaluation."

"Like it's going to be a surprise? Watch the fork," Dahlia pushed on Mabel's hand from her opposite seat. Guinevere was sitting alone on her side of the table, watching the trio with a faint smile. "You've been in level five since your second year. I don't get why you lose your shit every session."

Mabel gasped, slamming her open palm over her chest. "Surely, thou dost _jest_ ," Her voice took on a terribly forced British accent. Guinevere covered her mouth as Dahlia groaned. "Okay, okay. It's true," At the scoff, Mabel lowered her fork into her plate, an almost demure smile lighting up her features. "My placement's been the same. It's not me I get excited for—though, I do love having to do all new songs every year. It makes my repertoire grow!" She laughed.

"What I really love is seeing everyone else!" She turned and made one wide-armed gesture to the café that had both Casey and Dahlia ducking. "Everyone is so full of passion and each year is filled with different songs and people! Someone who decided _West Side Story_ wasn't their thing could have gone up to _Annie Get Your Gun_ and rocked it! I love seeing people change and grow."

A niggling feeling began at the base of Guinevere's skull. She scratched at her skin through dark hair, biting her lip.

 _My, how you've grown_ …

"Why didn't you try out for musical theater, Evie?"

All eyes were on her. She let her arm fall against her lap and offered a thin smile. "I'm… Mediocre? Like, I can sing okay. In a choir, with music playing. But I can't carry a tune on my own, and I'm no Sarah Brightman," Guinevere looked down at her plate, where the cup of mac-n-cheese was steadily losing its appeal.

"Besides, drama is where I'm all at," Mabel sprung her hands over the tabletop and snatched up Guinevere's hands. The look in her eyes was bright and near manic with excitement, obviously demanding more from her friend. "You just inspire reactions to people," Guinevere tried to pull her hands back. Mabel had a strong grip for such a small girl.

"If you do well enough, you move people to tears, or to rage. Have you ever seen a crowd at a good performance of _12 Angry Men_?" There was a raised eyebrow from Dahlia. "I saw at least three people punch their legs in frustration at the juror's plight. I want to be able to do that. I want to make people angry and happy and sad."

Mabel gave a delighted sigh. "I like you," She released Guinevere's hands. "You know what acting's about."

"I think you sound like a manipulator," Dahlia leveled Guinevere with a lopsided grin. "And I severely worry for you and your future."

Guinevere mimicked her words and stuck her tongue out. Laughter broke through the table at the childish antic before they all returned to their food, the sound of scraping forks the only language at their table.

Dahlia's comment had been a joke. Just a little rib. She hadn't been serious…

Guinevere twisted her fork and busied herself in taking a long drink from her juice bottle. _Apple. What the fuck is with all the apples_? She looked down at her plate, grimacing at the small package of apple slices sitting innocuously in a corner.

"Yo, Dal!"

The girl caught the tossed package in one hand, ripping it open without even glancing back at Guinevere. "Not a fan?" Casey questioned as Dahlia began nibbling on the green slices.

Guinevere glowered at her juice bottle once more and downed it. "They're okay," She screwed the cap on tight and set it down a little too harshly by her tray. "I'm just not feeling up to more apples."

"That's okay," Mabel sniffed. "Those packages have tons of sugar in them anyway. And probably chemicals too."

Dahlia proceeded to shove three of them into her mouth.

The intercom rang with a sudden blare, startling the group. "Back to sitting around," Casey stood up to empty their tray. "Meet up again for dinner?" There was a collective agreement from the girls.

"You'll have to tell us what plays your group picks!" Mabel said over her shoulder as they went their ways. "And what _parts_ you get! We'll talk about it at dinner!"

"Have fun," Dahlia waved before she and Mabel were lost in the moving crowd of campers.

Time went slower with a belly full of food. She knew it could be worse. The temperature was steadily climbing outside, and while it was a little warm in the theater room from all the bodies and the stage lights, Guinevere knew that it could be a thousand times worse without the air conditioning.

Auditions ended an hour after their return from lunch. The evaluations roughly took the same amount of time.

Then, when Carl and Lucy took their places on the stage; "Thank you for all of your patience!" Carl adjusted the collar of his shirt. "I know it gets boring, once you've gone and the adrenaline's worn off. But now that everyone's placed, we'll be moving on with our performances!"

Polite, scattered applause echoed in the room. Dahlia toed the ground with her sneakers and waited. Lucy was the one who took over, stretching out her hands to the room. "Our performances this year are _A Doll's House_ , and _A Midsummer's Night's Dream_. We'll have all postings for parts up tomorrow—and remember, there are no small acts!" Lucy beamed as Guinevere sent Casey a distressed look. "Everyone will have a part, so don't worry! We'll be coming around to help anyone with questions and pass out scripts."

Casey jolted in alarm when Guinevere bent over, arms tight around her stomach. "Hey! You okay?" They put a hand on her hunched shoulders. "Are you feeling sick again?"

"Yeah," There were cold chills working their way down her spine. Something felt _wrong_. She kicked her foot against the floor and willed the feeling to abate. "That mac-n-cheese was funky today. I don't know why I ate it."

"Jeez, Evie," Casey helped her sit back and fretted over her for a moment. "You look pale, and you're sweating. Maybe you should stay away from the sugar drinks. Here, hang on…" The blonde managed to snag a water bottle from their bag by their chair, offering it out to Guinevere. "Drink this. _All_ of it."

With a mumbled _yes, mom_ , Guinevere did as she was told. She did feel a little better; the water certainly helped with the nausea. The cold chill still sat heavy on her shoulders, and Guinevere promised herself that she'd treat herself to a long shower at the end of the day.

"Are you alright?" The three counselors were suddenly standing in front of the two. Lucy looked concerned, one hand pressed against her cheek. Barb was frowning, eyes flitting over Guinevere as if they were searching for something. It was Carl who had been speaking; he knelt down to put a hand on Guinevere's shoulder.

She did her best not to flinch.

"Her stomach's upset," Casey chimed in. "It's okay, she drank some water and felt better. We're okay, Mr. Ebott."

The man offered a smile. Guinevere noted that Barb and Lucy were still staring at her. She resisted the urge to draw her knees up to her chest, feeling very small under the scrutiny. "Well, here," A motion to Lucy had her placing scripts in his hand. Carl gave them both two copies as he spoke. "You two will do well together, I bet. But don't be disappointed if you don't end up as leads in the same performance, okay?"

"Of course not," Casey gave a little laugh. They seemed to notice that Guinevere was steadily becoming more and more uncomfortable. They put an arm around her and shielded her face in their shoulder. Guinevere decided that Casey was a damn angel. "We're professionals! Thanks for the scripts. I can't wait to see what part we get!"

"Feel better, honey," Lucy's voice had a strange trill to it. Guinevere fought the urge to gag and stared at the ground behind Casey's shoulder.

"I'd like to go to the bathroom," Guinevere said once they had left and she had pulled back from Casey's shoulder. "Cause I think I'm gonna puke."


	5. Will O'Wisps

"Oh," Casey's voice was soft. "Was it that bad?"

Guinevere responded by spearing her fork through the fruit cup sitting on her tray and glaring down at the offending pieces of melon and honeydew. There was a collective hiss throughout the group; all eyes were focused on the blossoming bruise that was forming on her chin.

"It's not that bad," Mabel tried to reassure her. Guinevere responded by shoving a forkful of strawberries into her mouth. The motion caused a twinge of pain to flare up on her right cheek, and she doubted her wince went by unnoticed. "Oh, Evie, I'm so sorry. You were really looking forward to stage combat."

"I can't believe someone actually _clocked_ you," Dahlia, sitting next to Guinevere, cupped her chin under the girl's jaw to turn her attention. "Christ, right on the corner of your mouth. Does it hurt? I've heard of someone actually getting hurt in that class, like, _once_." Dahlia pulled her hand back and Guinevere scowled down at her half-eaten sandwich.

Casey winced in sympathy. "I've heard of accidents, but that's in the master class, where they practice with weapons. Even then, the weapons are fake, so it's only little cuts. Especially in Ms. Bones' class."

Guinevere took her cup of ice and shoved it against her cheek for lack of a verbal response.

The day had started off so _well_. Though her dream had her waking up earlier than the morning call, Guinevere had used the time to read and just gather her thoughts. Morning rehearsals had gone exceedingly well, even with the placement of roles for the plays.

She and Casey had both been casted in _Midsummer_ , with Casey having the role of Theseus, and Guinevere herself having the role of Puck. She'd been so damn _happy_ that she hardly cared when they'd given her the bit part in _A Doll's House_ as a background character and stage support.

She was going to be Puck! She was going to keep it a secret from her mother and surprise Sarah when the woman drove up for the performance. It was almost as good as if she'd had Titania—but Guinevere was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Then, Stage Combat had happened.

Ms. Ruby Bones was the director for her class. Guinevere hadn't been sure if she was disappointed upon not seeing Javan's lithe figure prowling the building as if he were born with a rapier in his hand, but she did ultimately decide it was for the best. He was an ass and was worming his place in her strange dreams, she didn't need him distracting her in such a physically active class.

Ms. Bones was the woman that Guinevere had seen in orientation. She was no less intimidating without the leather jacket and spiked heels; rather, she had a different type of intensity with her wavy hair pulled into a tight bun and her body draped in a loose flowing tank-top and leggings. She had told the class that their primary focus was going to be working on making their fights—only hand-to-hand combat for the beginning class—look real.

She'd partnered the class up in pairs, leaving Guinevere stuck with a nervous looking fourteen-year-old. The girl had been practically shaking, arms trembling by her side, so Guinevere offered to let her move first. It was just supposed to be punching—the first actor would swing their arm forward, stopping their fist just short of the second's jaw. The second would recoil and make sure it wasn't too overly exaggerated or too weakly done.

Ms. Bones had done a demonstration, and nearly caused the boy she'd been practicing with to faint on the spot. "That," She had said as the boy stumbled back into the crowd. "Was a good reaction. But the point is to NOT hit your costar."

Guinevere's partner hadn't gotten the message. She'd gotten to hyped with adrenaline, so before Ms. Bones had even said _begin_ , her bony knuckles had caught the side of Guinevere's jaw and nearly split the corner of her mouth open.

"I'm sorry!" The girl had nearly shrieked when Guinevere hit the floor. "Oh, my god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!"

Guinevere had been ready to scream a profanity at the girl—that, or take her down to the floor—but Ms. Bones had stepped in and calmed the girl down from her panicky high. "Let me see," Her gray eyes had been oddly intent as her thumb prodded the red splotch on Guinevere's chin. "That's going to bruise. She literally caught you at just the right angle."

She'd switched partners, then, with Ms. Bones taking the nervous child aside and leaving Guinevere with an older male student. For his part, he looked scared at the murderous look Guinevere had carried since she hit the floor.

The looks had followed her through Shakespeare, and then to lunch, when Mabel had screamed at the sight of the bruise.

"I couldn't even fight right with my second partner," She grumbled. "Ms. Bones kept telling me I was making my swings too wide. I was doing that so I _wouldn't_ sock Bradley or whatever his name was in the face. I was so mad."

Dahlia made a noise of agreement. "Well, shit, I'd be too! You got whacked on your third day. Did that girl try to apologize after?"

Guinevere sniffed. "She said sorry right after she punched me. I think she'll probably try to avoid me for the rest of the summer."

"With good reason!" Casey pointed their spoon towards her, pink lips pulled in a frown. "You looked like you were planning a murder when you came in here. Let's just be glad you got that bruise now, and not the day before _Midsummer_."

Guinevere lobbed a grape at Casey's head and grabbed her tray. "No, don't go! You said you'd hang out with us for recreation time!" Mabel stood up, her eyes watery and wide.

"I'm just gonna dump this and go to the bathroom," Guinevere avoided the girl's reaching hands. "You have separation anxiety. I'll be, like, five minutes. Relax."

She crossed the café to dump the food in the trash, setting the plastic tray on top with a clatter. Her jaw was still throbbing, but all in all, it certainly could have been worse. Though it was bruising—it would cast an ugly yellow glean on Guinevere's otherwise dark skin—the blemish would heal in only a few days.

As she turned the corner around the café to find the bathrooms, her day went from bad to _shitty_.

"Are you stalking me?" Guinevere planted her feet on the grass and leveled a glower at Javan. He was reclining along the side of the café's back wall and almost seemed surprised at Guinevere's sudden accusation. He tilted his head, one long lock of hair falling over his shoulder.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Are you _stalking_ me? You're showing up every time I turn my head around. It's getting creepy, even if you work here."

An odd smile quirked at his lips. He rose one winged eyebrow, pushing off from his perch against the building. "I have better things to do," He drawled, hands coming to rest on his hips. "Then to follow a self-absorbed little girl."

Guinevere bristled, ready to snap back at him—authority be damned—when the smile dropped off his face. "What is this?" He was in front of her in an instant, his long fingers curling under her chin. It was like the hold Dahlia had on her, but without the warm comfort of soft skin. The leather of his gloves was cold and creaked as he pulled her chin to the side, exposing the bruise to better light. "Did someone strike you?"

Her bad mood simmered. "Stage combat. My partner got nervous and didn't pull her punch," She tried to twist her chin away. He held tight, and the stormy look in his eyes was growing more intense by the second. Guinevere suddenly had the urge to run away. "Mr. Moreno, let go. It still hurts."

That seemed to startle him again. He turned his gaze from her chin to her eyes. That strange smile came back, as if he was enjoying her obvious discomfort. He released her from his grip and let his hand fall back to his side. "My apologies. I'm surprised you were harmed in a class that practices _faking_ a fight."

She wanted to throw some insult at him. _Like you could do better?_ Stupid counselor. The two times they'd talked, he'd swung wildly between being an ass and being mildly concerned for her health. It was like talking to a pendulum. "Yeah, well, I'm not so hot in dodging or fighting," She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and made to step around him.

He caught her ankle with the side of his shoe, causing her to stumble. "Hold a moment," Javan's eyes gleamed as Guinevere cursed. "What's your name? You seem to know who I am. I can't say I have the same pleasure."

"If I tell you, can I go to the bathroom? You've been blocking me."

Javan tilted his head and gave a thin smile.

"It's Guinevere. You don't have to remember it—I'm not even in your class," Reluctantly, she rubbed at her chin. "Though I doubt you could have stopped that kid from hitting me. Ms. Bones couldn't even hide her surprise in that…"

He circled around her without meeting her eyes. "Alright, this? This needs to stop," She tried to step outside of his predatory walk, pointing accusingly at him. "I get that theater teachers are quirky and all, but you are like a shark right now. Do you do this to all the students?"

Javan paused in front of her and gave a bell-like laugh. The sound set a cold round of shivers down Guinevere's spine. _His teeth_ , she eyed them with suspicion, _Are far too sharp._

"If I said no, would that make you feel special?" He gave her a grin. "Guinevere. That's an out of place name for such modern times."

"Says you," She sniffed. "What kind of name is Javan?"

He placed a gloved hand under his chin and stared her down. "What kind of name indeed," Was his only response. After a beat of silence, he dropped his hand down. "I can teach you, if you'd like."

Guinevere squinted at him. "… Come again?"

"Come now, keep up," He snapped his fingers in front of her face. Guinevere almost swatted his wrist away. _He's a teacher. He's a teacher. He could expel you from camp… Ugh_. "Stage combat, child. I can give you lessons during the evening recreation period. You could do with learning at least how to dodge on reflex—unless you enjoy being thrashed by children?"

She stomped her foot and curled her hands into fists. "You—You—! Why do you have to be so rude?" She dragged her hands through her hair and resisted the urge to snap.

It was a good offer. Supplementary lessons from a counselor were not something to sniff at. The pained look in Ms. Bones' eyes every time she had to correct Guinevere's posture or arm suddenly surfaced in her mind and caused her to flinch. Guinevere eyed Javan uneasily.

"… Why do you want to help me, exactly? It must be hard enough taking care of your own combat classes. You run the master class, don't you? Why bother?"

Javan pressed his palm to his cheek, "My, you are rather ungrateful. I offer you an olive branch and you all but burn it in front of me."

"No, that's not—!" Guinevere smacked her forehead and took a deep breath. "I'd be really, _really_ grateful for lessons," She ground the words out. "I just don't want to take away from your own students."

"Nonsense," Javan flicked his wrist idly. "I wouldn't offer if it wasn't something I could handle. Now, do we have an agreement?" With a fluid motion, he held his hand out to her, letting it linger in the air. "Supplementary lessons. And, hopefully, you won't be bruising that face of yours anymore."

Guinevere gave him a nasty squint. After a moment, she shook his hand. The feeling of leather was disquieting, at best. "Thank you."

He gave a wry smile. "We'll start tonight. We'll meet at the stage combat cabin."

"Already? You don't want to get, like, a schedule ready or anything?"

"I work best in spontaneous circumstances," He pulled away and walked around her, finally freeing her path to the bathrooms. "Besides. You'll want to show improvement right away, won't you? No time like the present."

When Guinevere made it back to the café, Mabel was in a near panic. "I thought you got sick and passed out in a stall or something! I was going to come and get you!" The girl flung her arms around Guinevere's shoulders with a whine.

Casey sighed and pulled her back. "I told you she was fine! Though, you did take a little longer than normal. Are you feeling well?"

Guinevere flushed under the scrutiny from her group. "Yeah. Look, I don't think you all want to hear about my bathroom habits. I'm fine. Can we just focus on something else now?" After she spoke, the intercom rang out in a tinny bell.

"Rec time!" Mabel bustled ahead, dark hair swinging over her shoulder. "Let's go to the coffee house! We can look over our scripts!"

Dahlia and Casey exchanged a look. "Script, script, script," Dahlia pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's all she's gonna talk about till the end of the session this year," Reluctantly, the girl plowed on ahead after Mabel, catching Guinevere's arm to tug her along.

The coffee house was a small, cozy building, with one staff member at the counter. During the heat of summer, most of the drinks being shelled out were cold or iced—Casey waved the group to find a seat outside while they grabbed drinks for the group.

"Thank god for the commissary cards," Dahlia sat down on the grass underneath the largest oak tree they could find, stretching her legs out. "One-hundred-and-fifty dollars for nothing but snacks. I love it."

"You might be the only person I know who blows through all of that in two months," Mabel teased as she settled across from Dahlia. Guinevere sat opposite of both, the three of them creating a little circle on the grass.

Dahlia crossed her legs and picked a few stray blades of grass. "I like snacks. They're good and get me through the day without kicking someone."

Guinevere couldn't help but laugh at the idea of Dahlia roundhouse kicking someone in the teeth. "But a hundred dollars worth?"

Dahlia gave her a deadpan stare. "Those chocolate bars are expensive, Evie."

Casey returned with a drink carrier, all smiles and sunshine. "Okay! So, let's see… Mabel, do you really need an iced mocha?" They asked, even as they passed the plastic cup to the girl. "I think you're a little hyperactive as is."

Mabel took a long sip and gave a gusty sigh after. "No way. Caffeine is what makes me so peppy. Though I'd kill to get a good Starbucks out here."

"Overpriced and bad quality," Dahlia had a tall plastic cup nearly drowning in whipped cream. She took a swipe of it with her forefinger, eyes closing in pleasure. "Best coffee places are the hole-in-the-wall places. There's one I love, right off of Time Square. I'd murder someone for a latte from there."

Guinevere and Casey both had iced teas. She made it a point to scoot back behind the blonde. "I fear for my life. Should we just throw coffee at them as sacrifices?" Dahlia sent her a sharp look while Mabel grinned in delight. "Oh, god, I gave them ideas."

The recreation period ended far too soon. They'd done nothing but sit on the grass and talk and drink; Mabel did most of the talking. She seemed ecstatic in the parts Casey and Mabel both had in their performances and was all too excited to tell them how her and Dahlia would both be performing in their productions of _Little Shop of Horrors_ and _Waitress._

They went their separate ways to their classes. Guinevere wasn't entirely sold on her songwriting class, though her counselor ended up being the enigmatic music-man she had seen next to Ms. Bones during orientation. His name was Aldric Kreios.

"Songwriting isn't a science," His words stuck themselves in her head, even as she had to fight a crowd towards the evening rehearsal. "Sometimes, you get inspiration and boom! Your song is done. And then sometimes you agonize over every word and every rhyme because it just doesn't _sound_ the way it should, even though you don't have a sound for it yet."

Rehearsal had been easy, if not tiring. The evening rehearsal was for _Midsummer_ , their first production for the summer, and they'd only done simple readings for the time being. It seemed Lucy especially wanted to focus on the fae portion of the cast. She'd pulled Guinevere, a willowy young girl and a strong-jawed boy to stage left to speak with them personally.

"You three will be interacting with each other quite heavily. Evie," Lucy's long fingers had come to rest on the girl's shoulders. "As Puck, you'll be both in the faerie realm and dealing with the humans. Your role as a mischief maker is essentially what sends this whole story into motion! It's important to let your personality reflect that."

She'd grinned, showing off the flash of teeth against the red of her lipstick. "Luka and Nia are going to be your foils. Where you're mischief and chaos, Oberon and Titania must be order. Straight laced royalty, as it were. I want you three to focus on that dynamic. Okay?"

Guinevere had sent the other two looks. Nia had the air of someone who had done this before, and gave a pretty smile. Luka was all stern-eyes and heavy eyebrows, but even he offered a tiny smile to the teenager. "Yeah," Guinevere managed. "Sure."

At dinner, she complained to her giggling friends. "Don't laugh!" She shoved Casey's arm. "You're all terrible! I swear, I feel like I'm a little kid," She drew her hands to her chest, putting on a high falsetto voice. " _Don't worry, Evie. We'll help you, Evie. Don't be embarrassed to fuck up, Evie!_ "

"You're blowing things way out of proportion," Dahlia took a long sip from the cup by her side. "They're trying to, y'know. Help you? You're a newbie. They're experienced. It's the Big-Little system."

Casey nodded. "I'm sure they're just trying to be helpful. You do kind of look out of place."

"Out of place?"

Mabel nudged Casey. "You sometimes look like… You're lost. You get spacey and stare out at nothing?"

Guinevere felt her face heat up. She'd always been a daydreamer, but she didn't think she had ever gone so far as to just aimlessly stare off into space. "They've never seen me do that!" She argued.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Dahlia speared her fork through the dinner of the night, grinning around a mouthful of potatoes. "It's okay to be a little flustered, Evie," She had to stop to swallow when Mabel sent her a sharp glare. "No shame in being new."

The brunette crossed her arms tight over her chest and stared pointedly down at the wooden table. She thought of Javan, mocking her with his snide words and cruel smile, and then of Ms. Bones, who had sent her almost pitying looks every time she had to correct Guinevere's position. _It was your first day_ , she tried to reason with herself. _No one's perfect. No one's instantly good at everything_.

Despite the logic behind it, she couldn't stop feeling like an idiot compared to her experienced little troupe.

"Speaking of that," She broke the silence that had fallen over the table. "I'm not going to be spending evening rec with you guys."

Mabel nearly choked on her soup, clamping her hands over her mouth to avoid spraying Dahlia. "What do you mean?" She hit her chest, gasping once she stopped coughing. "You said you would! What are you going to do? You're not going to hole up in your room, are you?"

"No!" Guinevere frowned. "No, it's… Mr. Moreno offered me supplementary lessons."

Casey's eyebrows drew down over their eyes. "The Master Stage Combat teacher?'

"The one that she was eying up in orientation," Dahlia reminded them.

" _I was not_ ," Guinevere pointed her fork in the girl's direction. "And yes. He caught me on the way to the bathroom earlier and saw my bruise," Her free hand came to gingerly press against the livid bruise on her cheek. "And offered to help me. He said I could meet up with him during evening rec."

Mabel's face had a strange cast to it. She looked uneasy, sharing a glance with Casey. "I've never heard of directors offering out-of-schedule help," Her voice was slow and measured. She pulled at the collar of her shirt and seemed suddenly interested in the stitched pattern across it.

"Mr. Moreno is new, too," Casey had an equally measured voice. "Maybe he just has a different way of doing things."

Guinevere frowned. "Why are you guys suddenly so cagey? You said it yourself, he worked on _Le Mis_ and _Phantom_."

"Doesn't mean you should trust him," Casey murmured, barely heard over the din of the café.

"I'm sure it's fine," Dahlia set her fork down. "I mean, if nothing else, Evie can kick him in the junk if something goes down."

" _Dahlia_!" Mabel bent over the table to slap at her friend, scowling. "This is serious! It's weird!"

"He saw her fucked up face and decided that he was gonna help her not get fucked up again," Guinevere hid her cheek against her shoulder as Dahlia gestured towards her. "I don't see the problem with it, and neither does she. Don't be jealous because she doesn't want to spend her time around you."

"Jealous?" Mabel's voice hit a high pitch. "What do you _mean_ jealous? You're the one who was complaining about spending no time with her!"

"I'm going," Guinevere stood up from the table, backing away from the impending fight. Mabel was still bent over the table, looming over Dahlia, her lips thinned into a scowl. Dahlia was matching her glare.

Casey nodded, waving Guinevere off as they tried to settle between the warring girls. "Okay, okay! Mabel, Dahlia didn't mean it like that. Dahlia, don't insult Mabel, she's just worried…"

Guinevere was glad to be out of the café before the fight truly began. She rubbed her arms and sent a silent prayer for Casey; they'd need it to deal with the upcoming fight. She knew, without a doubt, that the two girls were about to get into a knock-out, drag-out fight that was going to rock the foundation of their friendship.

Or, they'd be bitter about it for the rest of the night and make up over breakfast in the morning.

Both were very plausible.

Javan was waiting for her, behind the stage combat cabin. The area was vacant, thanks to the multitude of students enjoying the time before bed, and had a strange air about it. Though, she could have been imagining it; Javan was standing in the middle of the grass with his hands behind his back, like he'd been waiting for her the whole time.

He got an A+ for dramatic flair, at least.

"So, how does this work?" She rubbed her wrists and tried to match his stance. Legs apart, shoulders back, chest puffed out. Despite her attempts, he still felt removed. Like he was above all of this, above _her_.

He stood like a king.

"Quite simply," Javan slid his right leg forward, his torso leaning back as he brought his arms up. "For one to learn how to _pretend_ to fight, the easiest way is to actually fight."

"—I'm _sorry_?"

Before Evie could fully process the answer, Javan's right arm came at her in a vicious swing, palm fully extended. She threw herself to the side, landing hard on the dirt with a grunt. Javan's heel came into her peripheral; she rolled to the left, gasping as the boot went crunching into the ground with a heavy thud. "What the hell is your problem?!"

Javan seemed please. His thin mouth was quirked in a half-smile as his hands came to rest on his hips. "What do you mean?"

"You tried to hit me! And that could've broken a rib!" She pushed herself up, landing on her ass as she pointed accusingly towards the disturbed patch of dirt and grass. "Teachers aren't supposed to hit kids!"

"If I wanted to hit you," The blonde inspected his nails, sharp eyes focused on his cuticles. "I would have. But, do you see what you did? You avoided. Now your body knows the movements."

As Evie stood, he struck again. Just as quickly, but with the opposite arm. Without thinking, she threw herself to the side, arms out to catch her fall on the dirt. When his knee came down, she did a deft roll to the opposite side, springing back up on her heels with her arms brought up to shield her face.

No hit came. With her fingers trembling, just the slightest, Evie lowered her arms. Javan was smiling still. His hands came together in a clap—half mocking, half sincere—and he did a little bow. "Excellent work. Muscle memory can be an amazing thing, Guinevere. The second time, you knew to hold your arms out, and knew to bounce back on your feet. Shall we continue?"

Evie took a moment to catch her breath. Her palms stung. Her ass hurt from where she landed on it. But his teaching method was what she needed; hands on, practical…

"When we get to weapons," She began. "Are you going to try and stab me?"

Javan gave a toothy smile that did nothing to assuage her nerves. "Would it help you learn to avoid a knife?"

"I'm just playing Puck," She stressed the character, edging away when Javan took a predatory step forward. "I don't think I need to learn how to…"

She barely avoided a high kick aimed for her nose, diving under Javan and getting a mouthful of grass. He tilted his head back and gave a throaty laugh, obviously taking delight in her misfortune. "Mischief makers are the best to learn this for, Guinevere," His voice curled around her name like a snake. "And it would seem we have much work to do."

His leg went to slam into her thigh. Evie ran, this time, circling around him with a desperate little yelp. "How am I supposed to learn from this?" She demanded. She had half a mind to throw a punch in his face—and barely managed to dodge one from him. He was practically serpentine; every movement was a flash, well-coordinated and sharp. Evie tripped over her boots and landed on her back as he advanced. She threw her arms over her head and curled up in a small ball, fully expecting the feeling of a high-heeled boot crushing into her ribs.

Instead, she felt the soft crush of leather on her wrists, and long fingers brushing across her forearms. "Stand, Guinevere. This is meant to teach, not to harm," His voice had gone soft. She squinted up at him to find those mismatched eyes peering at her from under his fringe of hair. "Come on. Up," With another tug, he pulled her to her feet. She realized, quite suddenly, why she was trembling and wary.

In a few short minutes, her annoyance at her teacher had transformed into a full-blown fear. Something in the way his body moved was wholly _inhuman_. From the way he craned his neck to the way he twisted his fingers against her elbow—there was something wrong with Javan Moreno.

"Are you hurt?" He stepped away and gave her a once over. Evie dragged her own hands down her forearms, and despite a twinge in her back that would surely develop into a full-blown bruise… She felt fine. Evie worked the kinks from her shoulders, brushed her hands against her shorts.

"No." She finally said. "No, I'm fine."

There was an awkward pause. Javan slid back into his fighting position, loose and ready to strike, his eyes still focused on Evie. After a longer moment of consideration, she moved her legs to match his, tensing her shoulders in preparation to dodge. "Excellent," Javan's voice was almost proud. "Let's step it up a notch."


	6. Changeling

_Third grade. Evie was nine, with an enviously-long ponytail and a rampant obsession with white horses and their knights. The teacher had been worried about her all year;_ "A wonderful imagination," _she had told Sarah and Darren_. "But she can't seem to focus on her work."

 _There was nothing interesting in schoolwork. Dimly, Evie recognized this memory, and wondered why she was dreaming of it. Luke Plume, her elementary school nemesis, was coming for her on the playground. She stood by the outcropping of trees and wildflowers just on the edge of the fencing, and felt a familiar pang of fear rising in her chest. Luke was long-gone, he hadn't tormented Evie in years._

 _But this was Nine-Years-Old-Evie, who was still very much afraid of Luke and his angry blue eyes and ham-fisted punishments. In her hand, she clenched a half-crumpled bouquet of purple wildflowers and dark green grasses. She wanted to press the flowers for her mother. She knew that Luke was probably going to shove her in the dirt and rip them in front of her eyes._

 _Evie took a step back into the grass. It scratched at her knees, knobby and barely covered by her dress. Luke followed._

 _"_ _Gimme those," He jabbed a finger to the bouquet. "You're too ugly for pretty flowers anyway."_

 _Evie felt a bead of sweat drip down her neck. "No," She sunk further into the grass. It felt less scratchy the further in she went, more like a gentle caress of fingers against her skin. "These are for my mommy. Get your own."_

 _"_ _I don't want my own," Luke's eyes were beady. "I want yours. I'll beat you up if you don't give me those, Jenny."_

 _"_ _It's_ Evie _," She stressed. Wrong answer. Luke finally entered the grass with her and grabbed the collar of her dress, dragging her forward. His fist reared back, Evie closed her eyes—and Luke screamed. Opening her eyes, she saw Luke stumble back from her, still waist-deep in grass, and stare in horror at his legs._

 _"_ _Something bit me!" He screeched. Evie felt nothing, only the cool shade from the trees and the brush of flowers on her skin. Luke screamed again, and Evie stared in horror as the grass rustled around him, not by his own doing._

 _There was something in the grass with them._

 _"_ _Get it off!" He tried to run out of the field, only to trip and fall under the yellow grasses. His screaming reached a higher pitch—frightened, animalistic. The rustling intensified, with little shadows darting in and out of the grass. Evie felt absolutely nothing._

 _She refused to move from her spot until a teacher came running over, shouting and confused. The man bent down, pulled Luke up from the grass. His skin was red, covered in welts and scratches; he had been mauled by some kind of field rat, the nurse had stated. Something had bitten him because he stood in the nest. Evie had avoided it, and hadn't been harmed._

 _But Luke was inconsolable. He babbled on to the teacher about red-eyed, furry monsters that had come for him under the grass. They'd bitten and scratched and had hissed human threats—the teacher assumed it was just a childish fear and imagination._

 _Luke transferred out of school within the week. Evie stayed out of the grass, but left her crumpled bouquet just outside of the field as a peace offering, wrapped in one of her white hair ribbons. It was gone the next day, and in its place; a small geode, glittering pink and purple in the sunlight._

 _Evie left the treasure. She didn't want it._

Javan wore a black vest the next morning; in the breast-pocket, a small cluster of purple flowers. Evie gripped her milk carton tighter than necessary during breakfast when she caught sight of him outside the window, feeling her heart pick up a beat.

She was imagining things. Her flowers from third grade would have been long-dead. There was no way that anything could have survived that long, and Javan was too old to have been at her school as a student and too young to have been a teacher; it was a coincidence.

But the thought bothered her all throughout practice.

"Are you alright?" Luka's hand came to rest on her back. She startled to the present; sprawled across the stage, the _Midsummer_ script loosely clutched in her hand. Nia was by her feet with a concerned frown, arms crossed under her chest. "You spaced out. You need a break?"

They were her seniors, concerned for her well-being, and just on the wrong side of insufferable. "I'm fine," Evie stood up, rubbing her free hand across her face. "I didn't sleep well. I've felt sick this whole week."

Both Luka and Nia edged back. Luka rubbed his hand along the side of his pants, as if he could wipe away whatever he'd picked up from Evie's t-shirt. "It's not contagious," She rolled her eyes. "I just haven't felt one-hundred-percent."

Nia was the one who stepped forward first. "You need a break?" The older girl gave a loose shrug. "We can always go to another scene, if you do. I don't think our director will mind very much," The senior gestured over her shoulder. In the audience rows, Lucy was busy with a younger camper, her back turned to the trio on stage.

"No," Guinevere pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm fine. I just need some water."

She pushed past Nia and Luka, scouring the area for the cooler filled with water bottles that the counselors had set up. She had to take a moment to grab one, looking over the auditorium. Casey was not too far away with their group, waving their arms about excitedly. They were having a much better time than Guinevere was.

She blamed Javan and his damn flowers.

There's still adrenaline coursing through Evie's veins. Her eyes were still besotted with spotlight, and even as the polite clapping from the audience swelled into a near crescendo of wolf-whistles and shouted praise, she's too dazzled to do more than tremble and bow with her cast.

The applause wasn't just for her. It's for everyone; Casey, Luka, Nia, their directors. But Evie could see her mother, standing in the third row with a watery-eyed grin as her fingers clasped the front of her shirt over her heart, and felt as if everything was focused on her. _This is what magic feels like_ , she thought numbly. Sparks across her skin, tingles of something tickling in the back of her mind.

Casey's hand gripped her elbow, their voice in her ear. "You were _fantastic_! Oh, Evie, you stole the show!"

Evie would cry if she wasn't afraid the make-up around her eyes would run. Instead, she wound her fingers through Casey's as the ensemble gave another bow. Luka and Nia, as Oberon and Titania, stepped forward first to receive individual attention. Then, Casey—as Bottom—with their trio. After them, it was Evie's turn.

She felt a strange thrum in her veins, chest tight with excitement and the lingering effects of her time on the stage. Again, the word _magic_ was the only one that seemed appropriate for how she felt. She stood in the center stage to bow, as her outfit prevented an appropriate curtsey, and found herself pausing. The swell of applause rose to an almost thunderous level. She could hear her father giving a loud wolf-whistle, and heard her mother's voice raise above the crowd in a cheer.

Her eyes were focused to the left, just beyond the stage curtains—and there, she found Javan. He stood tall, arms behind his back, with his gaze on her. He looked _proud_.

Evie's chest tightened again as she gave a brilliant smile to her mentor. He tilted his head to one-side, his lips curling on a feline smile, and raised his hand. He gave a little crook of his fingers, beckoning her towards him, though she knew it would be impossible at first.

He obviously knew this as well, because he turned on his heel to disappear behind the thick red curtain, his footfalls lost to the noise. _After, then. Come find me._

Her costars swarmed her once the curtains drew over the stage. Casey was shrieking in utter delight. Nia grabbed Evie's arms to twirl her around in a hug, cheering. "Oh, we were great! Did you hear that? They loved us! Luka, they loved us!"

Their Oberon brought them both in a crushing hug, Luka's voice cracking on an excited pitch. "You were all great! We couldn't have gotten a better cast!"

Evie squirmed free of Luka, allowing him and Nia to hug to their heart's content before she stumbled to Casey to grab their sleeves. "Let's go find our parents," Casey was ecstatic, their eyes alight with joy. Evie shook her head.

"I need to find Mr. Moreno. I saw him on stage—I need to thank him."

Casey tilted their head, but gave a nod. Before they could walk off to the backstage, there was a joyous screech—and the two were accosted by Mabel, leaping on top of both at once. "Oh, you two!" She was laughing. "You were perfect! Astounding! Phenomenal!"

"Get off," Dahlia was quick to grab Mabel's coat, jerking her back. She gave the two a thumbs up, even as Mabel began to jump and bounce with continued praise. "You stole the show, Evie. I think your mom was going to have a heart attack. She looked really excited."

"You sat next to her?" Evie pulled her tunic loose and worked off the fake belt.

Dahlia nodded. "We both did. She was about to cry. You going to see her?"

"Not yet," Casey put their hands on Evie's shoulder and squeezed. "She wanted to thank Mr. Moreno. I guess he's waiting somewhere back here."

"Oh! Thanking him for all those lessons?" Mabel broke free to drag Evie into another hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Evie endured it with a smile. "You moved so great! It was like you were floating. You should have been Titania!"

Evie shook her head and allowed her friends to walk with her in a great herd as they made their way through the backstage. "Nah. I was perfect as Puck. I could move wildly, but not be all regal and stuff. I don't think I'd like those stuffy Queenly poses." The group laughed around her. She was struck with the sudden realization of, yes, she's surrounded by friends. People who cared about her and were as eager to support her as anyone else.

She needed to properly thank her parents for sending her here. It was a startling moment of revelation; that this was just something she'd needed to do in her life. She wanted to come back next year, to be in a play with all of her friends—maybe even let Mabel convince her into a vocal group…

But, those thoughts were for later.

"Hey!" Mabel snagged a girl running by, her arms full of small props. "Have you seen Mr. Moreno?"

The girl jerked her head behind her and laughed. "Sure, sure. He's with some of the other teachers at the steps to the stage. He's there with Ms. Bones and Ms. Hanson, and some of the stage kids."

Dahlia grabbed Evie's hand to tug her along. "Let's go bring her to her crush."

"I _don't_ have a crush on Javan Moreno," She shuddered at the thought. She wondered, briefly, how anyone _could_. Javan was beautiful, yes, and enchanting in an ethereal way. He was elegant, had a lovely voice—but there was something inherently… Wrong. His eyes would take on that mean glint whenever he managed to disarm Evie in practice. His muscles would tense with every swing, as if he'd been holding himself back from hurting her as much as he wanted to.

Evie curled her fingers through Dahlia's and grabbed Casey's shawl for support. Suddenly, she realized dimly, Javan Moreno had been staring her because he _hated_ her. That general look of contempt that was quickly swept away with pleasantries and tight smiles—he'd _hated_ her. Perhaps he still hated her.

 _It would be rude to not say thank you._

She kept that in mind as they found the crowd by the steps. She was _not_ rude. She knew good manners, because good manners saved lives in fairy tales.

Dahlia squeezed her fingers. Casey put their hand on her back. Mabel's hand came to rest on her shoulder. Again, the unconditional support. It calmed Evie's heart a tad as they made their way to the mass of people, Dahlia shouldering her way through the students.

"Mr. Moreno! Mr. Moreno!"

A mop of blonde hair turned. "We have someone who wants to say thank you."

"Ah, excuse me…"

Evie watched with a small smile, her friends circled around her, as the fringed hair bobbed ever closer to the mouth of the crowd. She saw Ms. Hanson turn her head to stare, her eyes glinting strangely in the dark lighting.

A cold swept down Evie's back, so reminiscent of her first day here. Something felt… Odd.

"If it isn't our Puck!"

Evie turned her attention to Javan Moreno and felt her heart stop. One beat, gone, with a skipped second before she could properly breathe. Her throat closed, and she felt bile rising in the back of it.

His eyes were brown, instead of blue. His hair was too short, cropped just above his ears, with pleasantly tanned skin. He had a white scar dashed over the bridge of his nose, and his smile was straight and so very, very human.

This was not Javan Moreno.

This wasn't the person she'd spent two weeks training with.

"Evie just wanted to say thank you for the supplement combat training," Mabel bent over her shoulder to talk. Everything suddenly sounded like static to Evie. Her legs trembled, and she could feel the adrenaline in her veins.

 _Who was I with?_

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "I'm sorry? I don't believe I've ever actually met our talented actress here. Though, I certainly wish I had before. You have a knack for changing your body movement, young lady—"

The confusion between her friends was suddenly palpable. "What?" Casey's voice. "What do you mean? Evie's been seeing you every night for the past two weeks…?"

"Not I," The professor gave a confused shrug. "Are you sure you weren't thinking of Ms. Bones here?"

Evie jerked. Her muscles finally spasmed into working, and she slammed into the back of Casey's chest, sending the teenager stumbling back. She spun, ran around the crowd—almost killed herself by missing the second step—and ran into the audience.

"Evie!" Dahlia's voice. "Evie, wait!"

She'd seen her mother in the third row, and thank god, Sarah still stood there, a beacon of stability amidst madness. Sarah turned, her eyes bright and proud, and smiled when she saw Evie running to her.

At least, until she noticed the terrified look on her face.

"Guinevere?"

Evie threw herself into her mother's arms, knocking her head against her collarbone in the process. Her whole body gave a series of violent shudders, and she dug her fingers into Sarah's sides, crumpling the fabric of her blouse in her hands.

 _This is real. This is my mother. This is my_ mother.

"Princess? What's wrong?" Sarah cupped her cheeks to pull her head up, her eyes going wide. "Evie, what happened?" Her voice took on a sharp lilt, and Evie felt a bit safer in her mother's gaze.

Only a bit.

"I want to go home," She stuttered around a frozen tongue. "Please, Mom, I want to go home. Now."

There was no question in Sarah's eyes. She kept one arm firmly wrapped around Evie's shoulders as she called out Darren's name, voice hard. When he finally worked his way over to her, Sarah's voice left no room for argument.

"We're taking Evie home."

"What? What are you talking about? She still has another week here—"

"I don't _care_ , Darren! She's coming home tonight. Get the car. I'll get her bags."

There was a beat of silence. Evie kept her face buried in Sarah's chest, trying to work out the tangles in her thoughts.

Who had she been with? Why did he go along with her assumption he was Javan Moreno? Everything tumbled about in her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut in desperation. This couldn't be right. It couldn't be real.

"Come on, princess. We need to get your bags," Sarah reached behind her, gently untying the costume's neck from Evie's body. She had been wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans under her Puck costume; she'd never been gladder for her foresight than at this moment. Sarah left the costume hanging over the back of a folding chair as she ushered Evie towards the main building, looking over her shoulder.

Her mother's sudden paranoia only added to the feeling of something being inherently wrong. Sarah's hand stayed over the back of Evie's shoulders, rubbing and squeezing in small increments as they crossed the distance from the outside theater to the campers' bunks.

Evie dimly noticed how quiet the area was. Despite the crowd behind them, parents and teachers and campers all assembled into one mass, the night was eerily quiet. No birds. No crickets. There was only the sound of her and Sarah's footsteps and their breathing.

She felt the prickle of a warning on the back of her neck and arms before everything went to shit.

After they stepped just a single step closer—they were only a few feet away from the building—the air changed. Electricity popped and snapped along the back of Evie's jaw, and she tasted metal and smelled flowers. Sarah tensed immediately, her nails digging into her daughter's shoulder briefly before she jerked her close, both arms enclosing around her tight.

In front of them, reclining against the building, stood the imposter that had held Evie's attention for the better half of a month. He looked smug, dressed in a strange, shimmering tunic and riding pants—the air around him was ethereal. He wore the skin of a human, but his body was poised and too-still. Evie didn't have a word to put to him, as his eyes flickered from mother to daughter, his lips curled in a Cheshire smirk.

"Hello, Sarah."

Her mother hid Evie's face against her chest. One hand curled in her dark waves, protective, and Evie could hear her mother's frantic, terrified heartbeat. _Scared_ didn't even begin to describe what Sarah must have been feeling. A hitched breath, a sharp intake of air, followed by—

"Jareth."

Evie rolled her eyes to her peripheral. She wanted to see what was happening, but not badly enough to leave her mother's protective embrace. She heard the crush of grass as "Jareth" pushed off from the building, apparently crossing the distance.

"Stay back!" Sarah's voice was hard. "Stay away from us!"

"Now, _Sarah_ ," His voice curled around her name the same way it had curled over Evie's. "That's awfully rude of you. I thought you would have grown a bit over all these years."

Sarah kept Evie's face buried against her, and Evie was suddenly reminded of old stories; mothers keeping their baby's eyes away from evil, lest they be swept away.

"What are you doing here?" Her mother asked. "No. No, I don't _want_ to know. You have no power over me. You never have and you _never_ will!" Her voice grew stronger. "Get out of my way."

A long, breathy sigh. Was he amused? Evie found her mother's anger terrifying. "You're right. I have no power over you," Evie twisted in her mother's grip quickly enough to see Jareth point one long finger in her direction, his teeth menacingly sharp in the moonlight. "But I have power over your precious daughter."

The air crackled again. Evie smelled perfumed flowers, felt her head grow stuffy. Her legs wobbled once, and Sarah barely managed to hold her up. "What are you talking about?" Panic. Sarah jerked back, grabbed Evie's face in her hands to make her look. Her eyes were the same color as jade; sharp, brittle. Jagged.

"Evie, what did you do?!"

"She made a contract with me," Jareth was circling them like a shark. "Perhaps unknowingly, but it is binding all the same. Really, Sarah—I would have thought you'd teach your children the importance of not wishing so foolhardily."

 _It was the end of a session. She had a bruise forming on her upper arm;_ _Javan_ _Jareth had whacked her solidly with the wooden end of a practice sword. "Where did you learn to do that?" She'd asked. He had smiled, tilted his head, and swung the sword down in a fine arc._

 _"_ _A land far away from here. My home. Why do you ask?"_

 _"_ _I'd give anything to be able to fight like you do," She'd answered honestly. Stupidly. "I wish I could see your home, learn what you have."_

 _His smile had been predatory and sudden. "Maybe, one day, you will."_

Stupid. God damn it, her mother _hated_ it when she said "I wish." She knew better. She _knew_ better and she still said it, because Jareth had tricked her. He'd played her like a damn fiddle.

"I didn't mean to," She whispered. Sarah's face was stricken, horror written plain across her face. "I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't know—"

"Take it back," Sarah cut her off. She whirled on Jareth, then, and Evie noted that he recoiled ever so slightly when she did so. "Take it BACK! She's not yours! She's a _child_!"

"You were a child," Jareth snapped back. "Your brother, only a babe. Her word is contract, and I will gladly give her what she asked for."

Sarah blocked him when he made a grab for Evie's arm, standing in front of her daughter like a wall. She was imposing, the pale light reflecting off her hair; she cut the perfect image of a valiant hero, defending the hapless idiot.

"No," Her mother said. "I won't let you. She isn't yours to take. She's _mine_."

A pause, with the two facing off in the most intimidating stare down Evie had ever seen. Jareth was inhuman, Sarah painfully mortal.

"And in another life," Jareth's voice held something strange to it. Evie didn't care to identify the near wistful tone. "She may have been ours. As it were; this is not the case," A flash of light, and a hand wrapped around the back of her throat. Evie gagged, swung up to hit him, and found herself locked in a painful vice grip.

Sarah screamed her name.

"She wished to see the Labyrinth," He said, as if Evie's life were no more important than a game of checkers. "So, she shall."

"No! Jareth, please—" Sarah's hands came to stop midway in reaching for Evie. She was playing the perfect role of a tragic hero—and Evie immediately realized that every tragedy found its routes in sacrifice.

" _No_!" She kicked violently. Jareth refused to move. "Mom, no! No, no!"

"Now, what is this?" He was amused, damn him. "Does the little bird know something I do not?"

Sarah dropped her hands. "You don't want her," She squared her shoulders. "This was all a ploy to get to me, wasn't it? It's what it's always been. How long have you been waiting?"

Evie felt Jareth's head tilt against hers. "Would the time be of any consequence?"

Sarah closed her eyes. "I suppose not. Jareth—I give you a counter offer."

" _MOM!_ "

Jareth's hand clamped tight over Evie's mouth. She bit him, but if he felt it through the leather of his riding gloves, he made no inclination of it. "I'm listening," He practically sang.

Sarah stepped forward, lifted her head. Her voice sounded powerful, as if she knew exactly what she was doing—"You once gave me a chance to save Toby by running your Labyrinth."

"I recall," His voice was bitter.

"Give Evie the same chance."

A long pause, and Jareth managed to sound a bit confused. "You must be joking. You've won the Labyrinth before. It would be an unfair advantage—"

"I won't run it."

A beat. Evie could hear the distant ruckus of the camp. Were her friends looking for her? Where was her father?

"Evie will run it. You can take me, instead of her."

Jareth's hand dropped from her mouth, but Evie couldn't speak. She locked eyes with her mother and felt tears pool, hot and heady, in the back of her eyes. Sarah gave her a small smile.

"Don't worry, princess. Everything's going to be okay."

" _No_ —"

Jareth was by her mother in a flash, grabbing Sarah's hand and pulling her towards him. "I accept."

Evie made to run at him, snarling on a curse—but Sarah stopped her with a single look, freezing her in place. "Thirteen hours," Sarah bartered. "My daughter runs your Labyrinth. If she loses…"

"Then I get you," Jareth finished. "Honestly, this is a bad bargain, Sarah. Your daughter is not half the woman you were at her age."

Sarah jerked her hand away and met Evie's eyes once again. She smiled, soothing, and didn't seem at all worried on Evie's chances.

"You're right. She's _more_."

Evie ran forward before he could stop her, launching her arms around her mother's waist, voice desperate. "Don't! Don't do this! It's my fault, it's all my fault, please!"

Sarah ran her hands through her dark hair, cooing soft praises. "It's okay, princess. You can do this. I know you can. I love you, Guinever. You're going to do amazing."

And then, with a snap of his fingers, Jareth ruined Evie's world.


	7. Gwyllion

There was sand in her mouth. A _marvelous_ thing to wake up to. Evie grit her teeth together, felt something pop in between her shoulder blades as she shoved her forearms against the ground. Her arms shifted forward, sliding on—ah. That would be more sand. De-frickin'-lightful.

Had she fallen asleep on the beach again? It wouldn't be out of character for her. Though, her mother was normally good about waking her up shortly after… Getting sand out of her hair was always a monumental pain, and Sarah knew well enough to save herself the trouble of a tantrum-throwing child.

 _Wait_.

Evie's eyes popped open. The sand underneath her was a strange, glittery russet, almost orange underneath her fingers. This was not beach sand. Her memories hit her all at once, as well as the urge to vomit, and she slowly became aware of a set of eyes lingering on her back. The burn that accompanied assured her that, yes, this was very real, and she knew very well who those eyes belonged to.

"I know you're awake, little bird. Tick tock."

All the fear that had built up mixed with rage. Evie knew very well that, given half of a chance and the promise of her mother's safety, she would throw punches at the Goblin King.

She turned her head to peer over her shoulder. Jareth stood amidst a clutch of dying, silvery trees, his hand wrapped tight around a branch. A Cheshire grin split his face, his eyeteeth far too sharp for her liking. God, how _stupid_ was she to not have noticed? The shame and embarrassment of being so enthralled by someone who was obviously not human…

The absence of her mother was noticed quickly. "Where is she?" Evie stood quickly, ignoring the tremble in her knees as she drew herself to her full, unimpressive height. Jareth tilted his head, as if he was assessing her, and dragged his fingers down the branch's side. The tree wavered under his touch, a small cloud of glitter following the motion.

"You must be more specific, my dove."

"Don't play cute, _fae_ ," She took what she hoped was a menacing step forward, more for her own sense of confidence than any real hope of intimidating a being that was far _older_ than she was. "Where. Is. My mother?"

He inspected the back of his riding glove, mismatched eyes half-open. With the dusky sunlight behind him, illuminating his silhouette, it gave him an ethereal sense of being that Evie did not like in the slightest. His attention didn't waver, and she was forced to stand in silence, her sneakers sliding back a bit on the ground.

Jareth finally seemed to deem her worthy of his attention. "She's quite safe, I assure you. She's back where she belongs," His hand dropped to his side. In an instant, he was gone, only to reappear by Evie's side, long fingers catching her chin. Without preamble, he jerked her head to the side—and her gaze fell upon the Castle Beyond The Goblin City, far away from the hill on which they stood.

It was menacing, made of black stone and twisting spires, dark parapets arching high into the cloudy sky. "Quite an interesting sight," He sounded amused. His grip was painful—his strength was no illusion. He could literally kill her if he wanted to.

 _Did_ he want to?

"You have a dark imagination, don't you, little bird?"

Her green eyes slid to meet his gaze. "What are you talking about?"

He released her, only to knock his knuckles gently against the underside of her chin. It was an affectionate gesture, something she'd expect from her father—not the man who had an apparent thing for her mother. Jareth stood to his full height, the back of his hand still braced under her jaw to keep her from talking.

With his free hand, he made a sweeping gesture to his residence. "I'll impart on you a little secret. The Labyrinth is always moving, always changing, always _evolving_ and learning." He moved his arm to grip her shoulder, forcing her to stand in front of him. He pointed downwards, the stone walls of the Labyrinth itself coming to her attention. "And it looks different to everyone who dares to run it."

They were of the same cut of stone that made up the castle, sparkling and void-black as they rose in broken crags from the ground. Bright flowers and green vines climbed the sides, adding a strange pop of life against the otherwise lifeless landscape. "When your mother was here, it was all gray. Pinks, reds, gray stone… My kingdom, in her eyes, was a veritable _trash heap_ ," His fingers dug in painfully. "I quite like what you've done with it. More suitable for a villain than a fool."

Her heart gave an ungainly stutter in her chest. Wearily, she tilted her head back. He met her eyes once again, the sharpness in his gaze reminiscent of a predator's. "If it changes for everyone who runs it," She asked, slowly. "Then… What does it look like to you?"

His answering smile instilled a deep, instinctual horror in her gut.

"That's a good question," He hissed between too-sharp teeth. He released her shoulders, an ache springing up from his hold. Evie would have bruises, for sure. "If you win, perhaps I'll show you. Though…" He gave a soft chuckle. "I don't think you will. It's only thirteen hours, after all."

And then he shoved her.

Slammed his palms against her shoulder blades, sent her pitching forward—her feet caught up in the sand, and she couldn't stop from screaming as she went face-first down the hill, crashing and rolling in a mighty tumble.

His laughter followed her down, and she wildly thought that, yes, this being certainly DID want to kill her! He shoved her over a damn hill! She was going to break her neck!

Evie threw her arms out as the world spiraled violently around her, only to cry out as her left forearm struck something hard and firm. A fissure of white-hot pain shot up from her wrist to her elbow, but it slowed her down enough. She skidded on her side to the base of the hill, cushioned by dry thickets of dead, browning grass. Evie immediately cradled her arm to her chest, gasping as another flash of agony hit her.

Was it broken? Fractured? She could move her fingers, but squeezing her hand into a fist was out of the question.

Evie rolled to her side, stared up at the hill—Jareth was gone, though his laughter was still on the breeze, mocking her plight. Hot tears sprung up in her eyes. It was partly due to rage, mostly due to embarrassment, with a splash of pain. Quietly, she hunched up over her arm and held it to her stomach. "This isn't _fair_ ," She whimpered.

There was a snuffle by her side. Evie turned her attention back to the waist-high grass, feeling tears track their way down her cheeks. Black eyes met hers, and a soft chittering sound accompanied. "What's not fair?" A soft voice questioned. The eyes moved up, and as Evie's head followed, the head of a buck appeared.

His ears pitched forward, his long neck tilting to one side. "Oh," The deer's mouth opened. It was a talking deer. Of course it was. Why wouldn't it be? "You're hurt. Did you fall down the hill?" Evie stared in horror as the buck shook his body out, tail flicking high. "Looks like it. That's awfully stupid of you. Can you get up? You're in my grass."

Dumbly, the girl pushed herself back—and promptly collapsed on her bad arm with a shriek. The buck gave a sigh. "Oh, goodness, you're one of _those_ humans." He trotted forward, bowed his head, and stuck the curve of one antler under her elbow.

"No!" Evie begged. "No, please, it hurts—!"

"Shut up," The buck sighed. Gently, and without causing pain, he lifted his head up to elevate her arm. "Come on. Stand up."

Evie quickly did as she was told. She clambered up and snatched her arm back as soon as possible. The deer stood back, tossed his head, and gave another flick of his tail. "There." He sounded pleased. "Now I can eat my grass."

The buck was beautiful, a chocolate brown with a fluffy white underbelly, his pelt smooth and rippling under powerful muscles. He was still young, his antlers not yet an impressive crown on his head. "Can I help you?" He said amidst chewing a mouthful of grass. "Staring's rude."

"No," She sputtered. "I just… You're very beautiful?"

He paused. "Oh," He snorted. "You're just saying that to get on my good side."

"No!" Evie reiterated. "Your fur is beautiful, and… And your eyes, too. I've never seen a buck like you." It wasn't a lie, and it wasn't exactly flattery.

He tossed his head proudly. "Well," He sounded smug. "I _am_ the biggest out of my age group. Father says I am to be in service to the Erlking when I come of age. It's a very big honor; he _hunts_ deer. But bucks can be in service to him if we're strong enough."

She pretended to nod like she knew what the hell he was talking about. The deer pranced in place, obviously delighted with her praise. "Oh, I know," He kept repeating that word. Was it a nervous tick? "I'll give you a gift for being so nice to me, human! And for being my first human, as well. Let me see that bad arm."

Evie almost hesitated. He was obviously some form of fae, and as Jareth obviously showed, they couldn't be trusted. Regardless—what else did she have to lose? She stretched her arm out slowly, cringing at the sight of her slowly-purpling wrist. The buck inspected her arm, snuffled at it, and then turned his antlers to her good hand.

"Peel off my velvet."

"… I'm sorry, _what_?"

"Do you want it to get worse? Peel off some of my velvet, and rub it on your arm!"

Ugh. Okay, sure, why not. She'd been shoved down a hill by someone who had a thing for her mom. Not the weirdest thing that's happened to her.

Evie scratched off a thin strip of velvet from the buck's antler, trying not to gag as she did so. It came loose in a thin strip, and the deer pulled back, prancing still. "Now, rub it on your arm! From where it hurts, okay? Do it!" He bounced around her in a small circle, cloven hooves crushing grass and sand around them both.

Slowly, she pressed the strip on her elbow, dragging it down to her wrist. Immediately, an odd tingle took over her arm. It felt as if her whole arm had fallen asleep; followed by a bright, sharp pain that had her sucking in a breath. Before she could yell at the buck for betraying her, the pain vanished. She blinked in surprised and squeezed her hand into a fist.

No pain. None at all.

"Oh my _God_."

"Isn't it great?" He paused in front of her like an excited dog, bowed on his forelegs. "I'm the best at that, too! Say it, human—aren't I the best deer you've ever met?"

"Oh my _God_ ," Evie repeated. "Yes. Holy shit, yes."

He seemed to enjoy it. He sprung up, hooves airborne before he chased his tail in a happy circle, boyish laughter ringing out. "I knew it! I'm so good, aren't I? I'm going to be the best deer the Erlking's ever had! Yes!"

The buck froze in his spot, one foreleg popped up, and he cocked his head at her. "… Wait. You're a human. What are you doing _here_?" He bent his head forward conspiratorially. "You're… Not the Goblin King's _bride_ , are you?"

"Ugh!" Evie physically recoiled at the accusation. "No! NO! I'm here because that asshole—" The sky gave an ungainly rumble at her curse. "—Stole my mom! And tricked me! And he pushed me down that stupid hill!"

The deer sat down on his hind legs. "Wait, he stole your mother? That's weird," The buck shook his head. "He steals babies."

"Yeah, well, my mom isn't a baby," Evie glanced around the area. The walls of the Labyrinth were that much closer, but no less menacing. They were far too smooth and too high to climb, almost curving over at the edges. There was no doorway to be seen. "And I'm on a time limit right now…"

The buck gasped and sprung back on his hooves. "You're a RUNNER!" He cheered. "Everyone! We have a runner!" He threw his head back and called. There was no answer, though Evie glanced about nervously, and he bounced in small circles around her. "Oh, we're so excited, then! We've only had one or two runners since the Winner, and she's been gone for so long!"

The Winner?

Sarah.

Evie flexed her newly healed arm and pushed her way through the grass. The buck followed her, still chattering on. "I wasn't born when the Winner won. But I hear she was a great big monster! But that's if you listen to the goblins. If you listen to other people, they say she was a princess and an angel and—"

"And my mom."

The buck froze behind her, the crunch of dry grass falling silent. Evie made it three steps before he was suddenly in front of her, black eyes blown wide. "YOUR mom? You're the daughter of the Winner?!" He paused, took a cautionary step back, and continued. "But… You're human."

"So?" Evie pushed by him and placed her hands against the flat stone of the Labryinth. Something warm spiraled into her palms, welcoming and lulling her to press her forehead against the heat. She didn't—everything here was a trap, she knew well enough. The buck seemed to be a lucky exception to the rule.

Speaking of; he bent his head under Evie's elbow, scratching between his antlers with her arm. "You… Should be half fae."

The girl turned to stare down at the buck, her eyebrows slanting hard over her eyes. He seemed to shy away at that as his ears pulled flat against his head. "Well, everyone knows the Goblin King was in love with the Winner!" He said lamely. "He wanted her to stay, but since she was human she had to go back…"

Evie took a breath. "You think that, since he _loved_ her," She used her fingers to put quotation marks around the word _loved_ as she spoke it. "That means that, as her child, I should be his as well?"

"… Yes?"

"Well, I'm not," She whirled to face the Labyrinth, throwing one arm up at it. "You hear that, Jareth?! I'm Sarah's daughter, and I'm HUMAN! You lost! She had a kid with a HUMAN!"

The sky gave a louder, threatening crack of thunder. The deer dropped down and stuck his head between her legs, wailing. "Shut up! Shut up, do you want him to hit you?!"

"He can try! You coward!" Angry tears sprung in her eyes as he pulled back from her legs, lifting his head to meet her eyes again. He stared at her arm before looking back up, voice gentling.

"I'm sorry. Are you hurt again? Do you want more of my velvet?"

Evie dropped her arm, scrubbing violently at her eyes. "No," She sniffed. Quietly, she reached out—the buck answered, ducking his head to her hand so she could scratch his fur. "No, I just… I want my mom. She's in the castle. I don't… I have to get there, but this—I got hurt already. I'm going to suck at this."

The deer glanced uneasily at the walls. He stepped in front of Evie, rubbing the side of his muzzle against her stomach. "I… I can get you in, human."

She froze. "And… Why, exactly, would you do that?"

He bowed his head. "I miss my mother, too. The Erlking hunted her when I was still very small. It's… An honor, to be hunted, and he only takes those who are ready. But I still miss her. I would go through the maze if it meant getting to see her again."

He stepped away from her and began to trot against the length of the walls, calling over his shoulder. "Follow me, human! I can get you to a door."

She watched his tail as he trotted off. Quietly, Evie wondered what kind of world Jareth was running before she quickly followed her odd companion. The deer seemed to not want to speak anymore, his head lifted to the walls as they walked. After a long moment, her froze in place, his ears pricked up. He turned to face the wall completely, bowing a little to squint at the bricks. "Okay, this is it!"

The girl frowned. She could only see flat, black stone. "Um. Not that I don't believe you, but what—oh, God!"

He reared back and smashed his antlers against the stone, wildly grating them against the side of the wall. "What are you doing?! Stop, you'll hurt yourself!"

"It's fine!" He cheered. He reared back, turned, and bucked his hindlegs into the wall. With a groaning sound that shook the very earth beneath their feet, a portion of the wall gave way, crashing down with a might thud that had Evie jumping in her shoes. She coughed out sand and dirt, waving her hand wildly in front of her face.

The deer was back to prancing, throwing his head to and fro. "I opened it for you! I'm the best, right?" He paused to stare at her. "Say I'm the best."

"You're the best," She lifted her hands, staring in horror at the newly opened section of air. "You're… Scary, but the best."

He puffed out his chest. "I can't go in," He stared at the opening he'd made. More black walls, but there were crops of fresh green grass and wildflowers randomly popping up through the sand. "But you can. I have to go meet up with my family."

Evie took a cautious step over the broken wall. It did nothing beneath her feet. She turned to the buck, her hands awkwardly clasped in front of her. "Thank you," She said. "I… For everything. You're very helpful."

He bowed on his forelegs. "I have to be," He chirruped. "I'm going to be helping the Erlking."

She scratched her neck. "You keep saying that. Who is he? It's not Jareth, you mentioned him as the "Goblin King" …"

"Or the Erlkönig," The deer tilted his head. "He's a very scary king. Even the Erlking isn't as scary. But, _my_ King—" He shifted backwards. "He's the master of the Wild Hunt! He keeps a buck by his side for healing velvet, and he has hounds who follow at his heels," The buck froze in his spot as Evie stepped off the wall.

The broken portion began to vibrate, pebbles and stone bits lifting up as the Labyrinth began to repair itself. "Human!" The buck sounded panicked. "Human, if you find yourself in a forest, DON'T RUN!"

"What?" Evie winced as more and more pieces of the wall flew up, rapidly coming together before her eyes and blocking view of the buck. He ran in a small circle, trying to jump over the wall to see her.

"Don't run!" He repeated. "The Erlking loves the hunt! If you run, he'll chase you!"

"But why would he—?!"

"You're a human!" He shouted. The wall was almost completed, his voice muffled behind stone. "You're the child of the Winner, and a Runner of the Labyrinth! He will think of you as a mighty trophy! DON'T RUN!"

With that, Evie stared in horror as the wall sealed itself, separating her from the only ally she'd made so far. "Oh," She whimpered. "Fuck me."


End file.
